Recently, I had some sort of severe throat disorder that required a doctor’s attention. I figured the throat thing would work itself out in one way or another but then I made the mistake of showing my mom all the cool petri-dish-worthy stuff in my mouth when she yelled at me “Unclean! Get thee to yon physician. Apply the leeches. Burn thy toothbrush. Thou art the unclean!” Yeah, my mom talks like that. So, I had to go to the doctor. Now, let me state, I HATE going to the doctor. Not because I’m afraid of needles (I’m not) or I don’t want to be poked at (hey, attention from a rich guy is attention) but mostly because of three things…waiting, weighing in and paying up. And since my co-pay is so high, I try to gather up as many health issues as possible before making an appointment so I can get the most bang for my buck.
(Don’t forget to check that thing on my ass while I’m here.)
When I first got to the Dr.’s office, I found out my 119 year old doctor had retired. WTF?! Seriously? Dammit! This dude was awesome. He wore his pants up under his armpits and last time I had a throat thing, he was looking in my ears and said “Can you open your mouth? Thanks. I needed more light in here. HA!” Can’t beat 1930’s humor for bedside manner. So, now I have to see the new dude. Ugh. Fine. Whatever. So they gave me new forms to fill out. I like forms. I pretend it’s an interview for my E! True Hollywood Story, “Christa Woomer was born a female on 4/17/75 to perfectly healthy parents. Her maternal grandfather was diabetic. His diabetes was a result of a childhood accident that crushed his pancreas. Will this accident that caused this deadly disease skip her generation or will it follow Christa to Hollywood? Find out after the break.” It’s super entertaining in my brain. After I filled out the forms, which I signed with a full-on autograph flourish telling the nurse to “follow your dreams” and including a smiley face and heart, I got to sit. And wait. And sit. And wait some more. God, I hate waiting. I truly believe I read this issue Highlights Magazine when I was 9. Oh, Goofus. Will you ever learn?! Then they called me back for the dreaded…WEIGH IN. We all know that doctors’ office scales are full of crap and horribly, horribly wrong. So I told the nurse lady, “Look. I have a pretty good idea what I weigh. So why don’t I just close my eyes. You do your thing. Don’t tell me. And then I’ll open my eyes and we’ll move on.” This usually works pretty good. Except this time. I closed my eyes and listened to the girl move the dealies around. She said “Ok.” and when I opened my eyes, Miss Mensa 2012 hadn’t moved the weights back to zero. Damn you to hell! I so didn’t need to see that number. I mean, I know it and I know your scale is a lying sack of shit. But really? Where can I get a vodka sample in this joint?
(Funny…your self-esteem weighs almost nothing.)
Pass or Fail Exams
After I finally got in the exam room, I sat for another ten minutes or so. I’m starting to think that the exam room in a doctor’s office has special healing powers and the reason they leave you in there for so long, looking at drawings of the inside of your head or uterus, is because that little paper wrapped table has some sort of voodoo power that is part of making you better. The longer you wait, the more mystical healing you receive and the better you will feel. So then the doctor came in and asked me 537 highly personal questions (geez Doc, nosy much?). Because I totally know if my great-great grandmother on my father’s side had hemorrhoids and if my second cousin on my mom’s side was slow from a chromosome thing or that time he poked himself too hard in the ear with a stick. Yeah, that kinda stuff always comes up at Thanksgiving. Then he “palpated” me. Get your mind out of the gutter! It means he pushed on my guts. This is always very difficult for me as I am adorably ticklish.
(Internal bleeding is no laughing matter, Susie.)
After the palpation, which mostly consisted of me laughing hysterically and finally rolling off the paper covered healing table and onto the floor, the doctor diagnosed me with a triad cootie consisting of strep, thrush and tonsilitis. He gave me a band-aid for where I cracked my elbow on the chair during my fall and, since it had been so long since my last visit, told me I need to go to “The Lab”. Dammit.
Now, I was off to the lab. More time off work. Ugh. Because we all know how I love work. My first lab stop was to give fluids. Since I had to starve since 8 pm the night before, I showed up kind of cranky. I don’t function well without my Fruity Pebbles. As I stated before, I’m not afraid of needles. I’ve given blood. I mean, like on purpose. Not just in a bar fight. The tech who took my blood this time was amazing. I barely felt a thing. I’m fascinated with watching my blood fill up the little test tubes. She took 6 tubes of my blood. I actually told her “Um, do you really need that much? I was kind of using that blood.” She responded with “Yeah? Well, I’m using it now.” Dang! A blood thieving lab chick with some sass. I should hang out here more often. After taking away all my hard earned blood, she sent me to the potty for a urine sample. Now, I’ll be honest. I know my body pretty well. I’m not stupid and I know where all my bits and pieces are and what their main function is. But I will be damned if I can ever find where the pee comes from. I swear, she could’ve gotten a better sample from what I got on my hand than the three dribbles that actually made it into the cup.
(I totally didn’t scoop most of that out of toilet. That would be wrong.)
From there I got to go to another lab for my very first mammogram. The first lab said, “It’s in the building directly behind us.” I went around their building and you know what I found behind them? About 17 other freaking buildings! They told me to look for “Women’s Imaging”. And after wandering around the hospital for a half hour like an idiot, I found a place called “Center for Diagnostic Testing”. Yeah, that’s just like “Women’s Imaging”, you fucktards. I asked the girl at the front desk where I should present my bosoms and she said “You have to make an appointment.” Um, ok. Make me an appointment. “I can’t do that.” Well, who can? “You have to call.” Ok, what’s the number? Sighing like I had just tried to rip off one of her tits, she tossed a card in my general direction. I said thank you. Can’t wait to talk to you again. I know we’re going to be fast friends. She rolled her eyes. This whole encounter took place without her looking up from her computer even once.
(Yeah. I fucking live to help people.)
So to spare you the details, I had to take even more time off work for my breasticle test. Now, I was kind of nervous for this one. I have a great rack. It’s always been good to me. But I didn’t know what to expect. Would my poor girls be squished into oblivion? Would I have to man up and not cry? Would I have to slap the tech for insulting my lady lumps? What if the tech said (like the doctor did looking at my throat deal) “Oh, God. What a mess.” I just didn’t know. It was actually fairly anti-climactic though. And I found it very interesting to check out the girls smashed under the plexiglass. How could such luscious fun bags look soooo…weird? As I was contemplating this, the tech finally said, “Christa, you might want to stop looking down and move your face away from the radiation.” Ah, gotcha. Anyway, boob parade complete.
Back to Square One
Now after all this, I get to go back to my doctor next week to get the results of my adventures. I’m sure I passed everything. I’m pretty smart and I totally cheated on my pee test. I also get more palpating, testing of lady parts and most likely more probing with steel instruments and tongue depressors. It’s kind of like an alien abduction but you get to pay for it. Maybe he’ll leave me with the healing table long enough for me to procure some free swag. One can never have enough antiseptic wipes or purple latex gloves. I’m sure there will be a lecture of some sort stating that even though I look amazing on the outside, the inside is important too and just because vodka and water look alike does not mean they are interchangeable. And he’ll tell me my liver is sad and I don’t need to salt my Fruity Pebbles. Bloppity-bloppity-bloop. I will nod sagely and try really hard not to stare at the hair in his nose that moves in and out when he breathes. I will promise to do better by my innards. And I will…for a while. Until I get distracted by something else.
And to think, all of this started from a sore throat.