I love going to the doctor (yes, that is sarcasm). She’s the only medical professional for whom I don’t have to swallow two Xanax prior to arriving for my appointment. However, I must say that the dentist is hotter…and male…which is more my speed.
As a medical professional myself, I have to confess that I much prefer working behind the scenes with machinery and test tubes rather than the face-to-face stuff that usually involves someone bleeding, coughing, hurling or pooing. And I hate being a patient. But, since it’s my day off, where the hell else would I be?
Now, no one goes to the doctor for shits and giggles. Well, maybe shits, but definitely not giggles. And most folks can say with absolute certainty that their ankles are swelling, they feel like they’re harking up a hairball or they’re in dire need of one of those little blue pills, por favor. Not me. Of course it couldn’t be that simple. That would be too easy. So, I walk in and proceed to sound like a freaking hypochondriac.
Why are you here today? Well, I hurt. From the back of my head to the soles of my feet. And sometimes, just for entertainment value, the top and sides of my head, too. I sleep all night (sort of, if Himself’s snoring doesn’t keep me up), wake up sleepy (feeling sleepy, not Sleepy, one of Snow White’s dwarves), work all day (kinda sorta but all the while I’m really wishing to be asleep), go home and nap for an hour or two, get up and do the mom thing and then go back to bed. To hell with a sink full of dirty dishes and who cares if I haven’t bathed. I’ve arrived at work, parked in my designated spot and fallen asleep. Still, I am freaking tired. All. The. Time. Not just tired, but exhausted. I feel electrical charges running up and down my arms and sometimes my legs. I swear there are times when bugs are crawling all over me. My vision’s blurry and sometimes double. My hands feel swollen but aren’t. You can’t count the dents on my ring finger ’cause that’s just ’cause I’m fat.
I look up at this point to find her eyeing me like a biology specimen which, I guess, I kinda am. But the last biology class I took, we cut up a frog. I so do not want to be the frog.
At the risk of sounding like a batshit-bonkers suburban mom I continue with my litany of what the hell’s wrong with Stephanie and hope she doesn’t tune me out by the time I draw another breath.
She doesn’t which is kinda nice but then I start wondering if she’s one of those that writes up medical journal essays on the crackhead patients she sees everyday in her practice and start to worry anew.
Do you snore? she intones gravely. Do bears shit in the woods? Of course I snore! At least according to Himself who has been known to lie like roadkill but he swears it’s true.
Well, we either have a case of sleep apnea or fibromyalgia.
Can’t I have something exotic…like a tapeworm? At least that’ll make me skinny, right!?
This is a woman without humor. I can’t even get a grin, for Pete’s sake!
Next up for me is lab work to check for inflammation. Newsflash doc: the sedimentation rate is practically useless! You’re welcome.
Now, I know my way around a needle. Some folks judge others based on how they treat their mama or puppies. Me, I judge ’em based on how well they handle a needle…whether they’re wielding it or on the receiving end. Me, I’m no slacker in either category. The dude, Al, stuck me twice. I knew I was in for it when I looked down to see he had the needle perpendicular to my bestest vein ever. Sweet Jesus grant me mercy! You’re not gonna get it I groused. Where do you work he asked. When I replied I’d worked almost seventeen years in a hospital lab, he hung his head in shame. Yep, you need to grovel now, Al. I’ll give him points for being good looking and bald (my favorite) but may or may not deduct them for him calling me ‘Mama’ as in ‘Alright, mama, here’s your prescription’. I picture Eric Estrada…only bald (did I mention that’s my favorite) and with normal people teeth, not teeth like Chiclets. Perhaps I’ll excuse him.
I already know they’re probably not gonna have enough blood to run what the good doctor said she was gonna order. Thanks, Al. And I’m going to hope like hell the drugs do some good because I don’t want a sleep study, thank you very much.
But that’s alright, mama, that’s alright with me.
Let the waiting commence.