After wondering what my belly was growing (in the absence of food or a baby), I visited with my gastroenterologist recently.
Yes, not only do I have a hematologist, an endocrinologist, a gynecologist and a pharmacist.. I have a gastroenterologist. Sadly, all are warranted due to my crap genes (and the need for Aetna to make money off my $50 co pays)…. Seriously folks, I’m working my health plan like a mule. Bring on anything Obama can offer cos mine is about to croak.
Back to my watermelon stomach.
I’m sitting in the office answering the new-ARRAfunded-electronic health record questionnaire..(8 pages). I never realize how sick I actually am, nor how f**ked my genes are until I started this thing.
Please tick all those that apply:
- Dizziness? (I’m a chick)
- Weight gain? (heeellooooo.. I live for candy)
- Weight loss? (hmmm… once when I had my jaw wired shut for 6 weeks)
- Bloating? (…meet the virgin born baby Thomas. He’s due tomorrow)
- Vision problems? (…do cataracts count?)
- Unexplained bruising? (.. only after 4 martinis)
- Fatigue? (….seriously is anyone over 13 NOT fatigued?)
- Breast Cancer (yep)
- Stroke (yep, yep)
- High cholesterol (its a christening present)
- High Blood pressure (its everyone’s 13th birthday present along with anxiety disorder.. yes, we’re all stressed about how unhealthy we all are)
- Bowel cancer (yes, gluten is our cryptonite)
- Diabetes (I prefer to refer to it as ‘chocolate appreciation par excellence‘)
- Early unexpected death (well hopefully not before I finish this damn questionnaire)
The doctor walks into the waiting room. Devastatinglyhandsome. DAMN, 2 years since I saw him last (when I propositioned him while under general anesthetic).. and he still gives me the sweats. “Come on through” … I bite my tongue to avoid asking him to marry me.
5 mins later, he has his finger up my ass without even a compliment.
But don’t worry, he thinks that now is great time to discuss my dating status..
What, you think now is a good time to unpack the details of my dating life???? While your finger is trying to find god knows what while tickling my sphincter…?
I hmmm and haaaaa then reach for the stars when he hits what can only be my nasal cavity. Enough! My new shoes don’t deserved the amount of sweat which is poring off my feet.
“are you experiencing pain because you’re not used to this?”
Yep, now is not the time to be talking about any proclivities I might or might not have. (and this, certainly wouldn’t be one of them.. for god sake, I didn’t even get to take my shoes off or have a glass of wine).
Apparently I reached his decibel tolerance and he withdrew his hand with a snappy snap of the glove.
5 mins later I’m leaving his office with my evening project.
Fecal sample. Not just a sample, but a sample of a sample. Yes, I’ve been asking to spend my evening pooping and then cutting it into slices to select ‘ the right’ poop.
Being single has never been such an asset.
Filed under: Embarrassing admissions, Getting older, health, late night worries, Life after 40, singledom
