This one’s done..can I get another?

Image result for broken bodyThe world needs another post about Trump today like I need another 1st date. So instead I’m obsessing about how knackered my body is. Not just tired, but worn out. Done. Ready for recycling. Broken.

Ok, a little bit of an overstatement, but I so feel busted. Hot on the heels from an ENT appointment about my growing allergy to everything living thing, last week I learned that my nose is busted. One side hasn’t worked for a year or so, and the other side is thinking of decamping to Canada. The impact – that I start suffocating when I’m swimming, hiking, riding, running – is a bit of a challenge but “a simple surgery” with fix it.

The last “simple surgery” took a year off my life, left a hole in my shoulder and added a stone (14lbs) to my ass. I still hurt every day from the “simple-ness” of it all (though my  shoulder makes a great hook for a handbag and stores rainwater).

Next up my knees. I’ve always ridden bikes and I’ve run for 20 or so years including quite a few half marathons. Today.. my doctor says I have the knees of a 65-year-old with no cartilage left and torn fascia. But guess what…. ? A “simple surgery” can help eliminate the problem and have me up on the slopes by spring.

I”m noticing a trend here. I’m broken, but not beyond repair.

Except I’m scared of “simple” anything. After all, this election was meant to be “easy” back when we found out a Cheeto was running…

It seems as we age, anything becomes possible. Surgeries are so “simple” they’re not even called surgery anymore. “Procedures” sound more like what I do when putting on a sports bra.. but every doc I see is aching to offer me one in order to fix my failing bits.

Instead I’ve decided I’m opting for all new, all in one. I’m thinking about a full body transplant. An unemployed millennial fresh from a sofa. They’re not using their bodies, and it would be so damn wonderful to ride my bike without clenching at the pain, walk down the stairs like normal (instead of crabwalking with shrieks) or stand up without an ‘oomph’ and a moment to compose myself.

Yes I might have unshaved legs for the rest of my life,  wear a stupid beany while talking about my ‘woke baes’ but I’d trade it for what I’m working with.

No-one needs this many shrieks and moans at 44.  Not unless a Cheeto is talking.

Who’s with me?

 

 

Waiting for the short bus

 

 

Short-Short-BusI got a concussion this past weekend so please excuse the clarity of my writing.. I’m still not quite myself.

It’s not my first – I seem to have landed on my head a fair amount over the last 42 years – but it was definitely one of my worst.

While mountain biking alongside spectacular scenery, a whole 3 hours of blue sky and single track in front of me, I noticed a lady walking her dogs off leash some ways in front of me. No big deal.

Except it became a big deal when she belatedly called the dogs to her, right in front of my front wheel without an inch to spare. To avoid running over the dog (I’m a pet lover even at 13mph), I braked sharply and flew over the handlebars, landing gracefully on the back of my head.

Thankfully I was wearing a helmet, but pain ricocheted alongside the side of my head and I embarrassingly found myself in tears.. right as the lady – now christened ‘Stupid Bitch’ via my inner dialogue rushed over to pronounce me ‘fine’.  Since I’ve not really been “fine” since birth, how she determined my complete health status within seconds was truly remarkable. That she grabbed hold of the back of my neck and proceeded to start massaging it, also surprised me… but at this point, anything SB did wasn’t really ranking high on my ‘logic’ scale.

Long story short, my friends took care of the situation and I tried to hold my brain in place and 3 hours, one ambulance ride, CT scan and the frightening loss of a few facts.. I’m concussed but completely fine.

Or so I thought. When I finally got around to reading my discharge notes -24 hours later- I realized that a concussion is actually a ‘thing’. And that driving to Whole Foods in order to stand around blankly, forgetting the name of a friend who was standing in front of me and trying to put gas in the car (without taking off the gas cap).. weren’t signs of a brain really functioning all that well.  Apparently its all normal and I can expect my spelling, memory and ability to recall the names of people will all return within 24 hours – 6 MONTHS.

Yikes.

I have a friend who suffered a traumatic brain injury (TBI) from an ultimate frisbee incident and she’s not fully recovered after 2 YEARS. And while my injury was nothing akin to hers – I can still get my words out in the correct order – I am now having a whole other level of empathy for those folks who suffer with TBIs. It also got me wondering how many people around me might also have hit their head recently? Potential candidates may include;

  • The news this morning that Tom Ready questions whether the Sandy Hook massacre actually took place or whether it was a hoax to advance gun control measures by the government. Got to love a paranoid Colorado Republican
  • That guy who I went on an awesome date with in July but who has since forgotten my name, number, how awesome a time we had and that date we were going on the following weekend. Clearly he’s wandering around Whole Foods somewhere wondering why he’s there and who that person smiling at him is.
  • The man who yelled at me this morning for letting my dog pee on his sidewalk. While I do pick up after my dog religiously, clearly he was under the misapprehension that I also carry paper towels on my dog walk in order to pick up my dog’s liquid excretions.
  • That fella who contacted me about my motorcycle being for sale and offered me $2000 under listed price OR his grandmother’s 1983 Cadillac as part of the deal. Sweet offer dude.
  • That lady who couldn’t find the appropriate phrasing for ‘vibrator’ on an urgent work call (don’t ask, it’s complicated), and came up with ‘ladies implement’. I don’t know about you, but that could be anything from my eyebrow tweezers to my hairdryer, but now all I can think of is her notion of being ‘impaled’ by something.

The short bus awaits us all. Helmets will be provided.

An ode to yoga

yogaAfter 11 years of downward dogging, my doctor measured me on Tuesday and pronounced me 3/4 inch taller than my last physical. Now any exercise that stops my ass from sliding further down my legs AND  apparently makes me taller is my kind of exercise…even if it has taken 11 years.

So in response, here is my ‘Ode to Yoga’. The only exercise where crotch sweat is ok and lying down with your eyes closed is considered an important part of it.

 

Dearest Yoga I bow to thee

You make me bend fantastically

swan diving over gracefully

While farting so discretely

 

Wobbling with delicacy

1 leg outstretched, bent at the knee

with arms spread wide so joyfully

Falling slowly sideways, yes that’s me.

 

Warrior pose number 3

Clearly an impossibility

Camel just makes me want to pee

Eagle pose, I disagree

 

Oh how I would love to be

A LuLumon devotee

But in leggings and a cropped t

I resemble a manatee

 

11 years on and I fail to see

how yoga made me 5ft 3

but downward dog, plank and tree

calmed my mind and set me free

 

If hippy chants improve my chi

and help me think more clearly

Add abs and buns of steel then oui

Yoga I remain, your devotee.

 

Cooties

01 cootiesI got involved in a very animated discussion recently when the topic of ‘cooties’ came up.

Grown up cooties specifically. You know, the kind associated with specific grown up activities. Ants in your pants. Bugs on your rug.

(NOTE: to those outside the US, cooties is an infantile term used to refer to germs, diseases, bugs etc. I’m using it because this post is about STDs and I don’t want to sound like the Centers for Disease Control).

The topic came up around how people approach the possibility of ‘cooties’ when meeting and ‘doing the physicals’ with new people. Today, based on the experience of the group of chicks I talked to, it seems like fewer and fewer people even think about the possibilities of ‘picking up’ something from a partner, and it’s not just men.

A rough survey conducted among a group of women I know showed that while many had spent their 20’s playing extra safe to ward off possible pregnancy scares and the specter of AIDs (‘Just Say No’ clearly worked for most of the MTV generation), as they hit their 30’s all caution (and underwear) was thrown to the wind. No condom? No problem.

Whether it was the advent of better pills, the distancing from AIDs (especially the straight married folks or non drama students in the group), the lack of knowledge about disease prevalence, embarrassment about bringing it up or just increased sex confidence, a large majority of people in the group didn’t ask, didn’t tell and just assumed before diving in.

Growing up in the UK, condoms were just a given. Whether we’re just natures pussies or, more likely, hypochondriacs, every guy, every woman I know wouldn’t dare to ‘go there’ without wrapping up. No glove, no love. Don’t be a fool wrap your tool. Bag the dagger. Wear the jimmyhat. You know.. use protection. (and no, your parents watching TV in the next room don’t count).

But when I moved to the US, I immediately noticed – like drunk driving – that standards were a little different. As in, non existent. Dudes looked horrified at the suggestion, a few claimed that they couldn’t, some claimed they wouldn’t and one said ‘they don’t fit’ (apparently he had a knob like a U haul or a toothpick.. I didn’t stay to find out). Dudes didn’t do, and girls didn’t ask.  I even cautiously asked a few girlfriends about the situation and was told ‘oh go on the pill’ as though that was somehow magically going to protect me from cooties.

To many American women, diseases – from HIV to herpes, crabs to chlamydia – just weren’t something that would happen to “them”. Cooties were for someone else. Bad girls. Dirty girls. Hookers. Sluts.

There were of course exceptions to this blanket assessment who I met through the years: those who dabbled outside of their monogamous relationship; people with gay friends who understood more about disease prevalence; people who worked in the medical field and of course hypochondriac like me*.

*Lets just say, Nancy Reagan did a number on me about condoms, drugs and red suits.

These exceptions got tested regularly, ‘suited up’ with partners,  and had discussions  about history and safety before even a sock was removed. But the girls in my group at that time looked horrified when I mentioned ‘when do you discuss your status?’. The only outliers were those who’d been cheated on, were in open relationships, or weren’t in a relationship at all. And of course, the few silently nursing an STD and hoping to god that I’d shut up.  Apparently in the US, polite girls (and guys), just don’t talk about it.

“But I’m married” (I don’t think rings guard against chlamydia but perhaps I had the wrong kind)

“We barely have sex anyway” (even more alarming.. what if he’s having sex with someone else)

“I know he’s ‘clean’ ” (really? do you have a lab and a petri dish by the side of the bed?)

” He’d tell me if he had something” (You really believe a dude knows his cootie status and  would tell you about cooties if it would in any way get between him and your cooch?)

“I don’t like/ he doesn’t like/we don’t need to use condoms” (you might be on the pill, but does it kill cooties?)

The level of trust and blaseness around cooties was remarkable.. especially given these were all mature people, most in professional jobs with degrees and apparently, no small degree of common sense.

Which wouldn’t be alarming if it weren’t for the new cooties that are just lurking around waiting for a nice warm damp environment to flourish and the number of people who don’t know they have anything and therefore assume they’re completely ok.

Here’s a few things which guys can carry with no indications whatsoever.. and hand off to any willing female

1. Chlamydia: The ‘Wal Mart’ of STDs, Chlamydia is the #1 STD in the United States and most people have no symptoms. Most alarming you can catch it from every orifice you might be using, so transmission is super easy. The CDC suggests that everyone who’s ‘active’ get tested every year, even if you don’t have symptoms…. so when was your last test?

2. Gonorrhea: Again, another super common cootie with minimal symptoms that can be passed through any kind of fun activity. I actually knew a friend who ended up with this in her throat… She’s abstained from “sex” because she didn’t have a condom but went in a different direction with pretty much the same horrible outcome. Best of all,  men with gonorrhea may have no symptoms at all, and most women with gonorrhea do not have any symptoms either. And most recently, studies have shown that the cootie is developing resistance to drugs, making it harder to treat, when you realize that you have it. Starting to feel a little itchy yet??

3. Syphilis: Called ‘the great imitator’ because it has so many possible symptoms, many of which look like symptoms from other diseases. The painless syphilis sore that you would get after you are first infected can be confused for an ingrown hair, zipper cut, or other seemingly harmless bump on your ‘private area’ but also your lips, or even if your mouth. (wanna go grab a mirror?). Syphilis has 3 main stages and if left untreated, 10–30 years after you found that bump or weird thingy,  you might find yourself with  paralysis, numbness, blindness, and dementia, eventually resulting in death. Best of all? If the Syph doesn’t get you, your likelihood for contracting HIV just went up exponentially whether you’re gay, straight or somewhere in between. Now with a rise in the occurrence of syph (up 12%) over the last few years.. condom’s and testing aren’t looking so bad now are they?

4. Herpes: Ah, the herpe. The one most people seem to fear even though it’s actually not fatal, and for most people who have it (1 in 5 women, 1 in 10 men).. well they have no symptoms at all. People might confuse a herpes sore with a pimple or an ingrown hair, so don’t trust anyone who says they don’t have it and who’s never been tested. Because so many people carry it without knowing (know 5 women?.. 1 of them has it), its  easy to contract, and with no cure, a permanent reminder of that time you thought you’d skip the condom. You can catch herpes even if the person has no outbreak, and while its only really an inconvenience (it’s not, like HIV, a life changer or ender), the social stigma seems to drive both men and women into total denial. Still down there with the mirror? I’ll move on…

5. Crabs (lice): Pubic lice usually are found in your nether regions, but did you know that they can also be found on any other coarse body hair, such as hair on the legs, armpits, mustache, beard, eyebrows, or eyelashes? Suddenly that hipster beard doesn’t look so sexy does it? Actually one of the less common cooties around, crabs tend to be common amongst younger people (who don’t groom as much), and those who have multiple partners. And no, condoms don’t protect against them but a brazilian will limit their spread (but not entirely). So if you’re hitting the hay with the lights off with you fixie riding, oral loving one night stand.. you might, just might, want to turn on the lights before you get into it.

6. Trichomoniasis (or “trich”) is very common (3.7 million cases in 2012), most people who have the parasite can’t tell they’re infected and – bonus- its more common amongst older women than younger (though dudes, its equal opportunity for all of y’all).  On a good note, some women do have yucky symptoms up to 28 days after contracting trich, so if you get a call on your voicemail from some chick you met a while back… you might want to schedule that doctors appointment.

7. HPV: Well this one has been done to death, but suffice to say HPV (or cootie warts), can be contracted easily, cured slightly less easily, and for some people, it clears eventually on its own (if you don’t mind being all warty down there for a few years). You can get vaccinated against it, its really dangerous to women (who might have increased risk of cancer as a result), so dudes… just wrap it up unless you know you’re good to go???

Ok ok,.. so you might be thinking ‘all well.. but thats for people who are single, people who sleep with hundreds of people, gay dudes, Gemini’s, dirty girls, dudes who ride motorcycles..etc etc’. And while all of that may be true, cooties don’t care. And cooties love sex. So get tested people, and be safe. Even if you think you’re exempt because you’re married, or monogamous, or only sleep with hot blondes or dudes who drive BMWs…

…. are you sure that weird bump on your inner thigh is just an ingrown hair???

 

Mad about SAD

bed dogIts November which means for me, and eleventy million other folks, its SAD season.

Yes, its a real thing.

Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD)  is a type of depression that occurs at the same time every year. With symptoms that start in fall and continue through the winter months, we’re the moody hermits who seem to drop off the face of the earth around November and reappear bright, breezy and back to normal in March. Characterized by moodiness, withdrawal from social activities, over consumption of carbs, excessive sleepiness and lack of energy, sub clinicial depression and decreased sex drive (no, its not him.. its you), SAD actually impacts around 20% of Northern Europeans,  14% of New Englanders, most of Russia, the Nordics and everyone in Canada.  And you thought they were just naturally grumpy and slightly alcoholic.

Yes, its a real thing. (Its in the DSM-IV and everything).

Which for me and a whole lot of northerners, means its time to break out that HBO subscription and your wool socks. Stock up on the pasta and wine. Its hibernation time.

I have always wondered why I spent the winter feeling like I was hiking a mountain covered in treacle. Why getting out of bed went from a trampoline bounce in April to an army crawl in October. And most significantly, why I spent my summer jumping into every social occasion but even the idea of even leaving the house in the winter, a dreaded torment. I figured I just didn’t like the cold.

But when I moved to Colorado and spent 8 months of the year basking in 18 hours of sunshine every day, it seemed like every October a switch was flipped and I dropped off a cliff. The thought of talking to friends was exhausting, leaving the house in the dark complete insanity, and man, what was life really all for? I mean really? Why bother? We’re all going to die one day.

I was the ultimate winter Grinch. Sans the cute dog with reindeer horns. Actually no.. I even had him.francis reindeer

Then one winter, as I was tucking myself into the bed at 7.30pm, ignoring repeated phone calls from friends and consuming a literal ‘house of carbs’, I realized I might have a problem. At this rate I’d soon be sleeping more hours than I was awake and they’d have to airlift me out of the house by springtime. 1 week later, I found Romana.

Romana hailed from Bratislava and was a dead ringer for a female Dracula. She spoke in a low, solemn monotone, her skin was practically transparent and she looked on the brink of tears every time I saw her. I wondered who was meant to be treating who. She sure looked in need of a pep talk, never mind me.

‘You have the SAD’, she intoned. ‘I have the SAD. Europe, Russia, Britain…we all have the SAD’

Delighted to hear that I wasn’t on the bring of some major depressive episode or finally feeling my age (I had considered that sleeping 14 hours a day might be what a 38 year old person actually needed. I mean those people in Boca are practically comatose), I breathed out with relief.

‘So I have the SAD? Seasonal Affective Disorder?’ (I can’t help but mirror other’s speech patterns; its a curse). I was relieved.. it sounded…fixable. Not scary at all (I had spent the previous week checking WebMD for symptoms of brain tumors and MS).

‘Yes. It is the SAD. It is why I live in the Colorado. For the sun….’, she almost smiled, ‘…but I still have the SAD. It is bad. And you will always have the SAD. Is…. sad’

I felt like I was in conversation with Sesame Street’s Count Von Count. How many times could one say the word ‘sad’?

‘The SAD is for the women’, she intoned, ‘the serotonin – it drop. The melatonin – it drop. Is like the depression.. but different. But is easy to treat’, She smiled wanly and pulled out her prescription pad with vaguely purple hands.

Phew. Ok, so my doctor is a vampire, but I’m not dying or in need of long term psychiatric care. Could be worse.

Romana assured me that while my SAD wasn’t going anywhere ( ‘Is for life’, frowny face Romana sympathized), but I could make it easier for myself with mega doses of Vitamin D and a ‘SAD lamp’.

‘You, you take 6,000 units of the D… I take often 10,000 units’, she prescribed, ‘but I am Slovakian‘. I expected her to break out a sword or at least a bottle of vodka with this fierce pronouncement, but no, we were done. Me and my pansy-ass British SAD. Not even exciting enough for 10,000 units of ‘the D’.

So, come each October, as I find myself dragging, starting to loathe the notion of socializing and considering the merits of an 8pm bedtime, I break out the SAD lamp and the mega bottle of D. Its magic really. Sure I’ll never spring out of bed like I do in the summer months, and socializing will always involve an internal argument until March, but it does prevent me pondering the meaning of life too deeply or sobbing as the dead leaves fall. I’ve learnt to stay away from Bon Iver, limit my sofa time and hike like a motherfucker during the weekends. My dog loves my SAD.

Apparently my lot in life is weird medical complaints.

Last week as temperatures fell, I looked around me at the people who seem unaffected by the seasonal change and feel a mix of anger and envy. While I do get the positive impact of SAD (come mid March, I’m positively bouncing off the walls with joy), I’ll never quite feel their excitement around the impending ski season, new boots and the coming holiday season (HallowThanksMas). I’ll never quite wring the joy out of winter that I could, though I will power through the grey fog that is SAD in order to stay sane. After all, I’m SAD, not terminal. And did someone mentioned new boots?

The February Sad

I don’t know about you, but come mid February  all of my enthusiasm for projects, goals, achievements or anything mascarading as ‘effort required’ blows out the window. My February ‘sad’ arrives in a fog of weariness and lethargy and sets up shop for a few weeks.
I steam through January, feeling as though anything is possible, jumping out of bed at 5.30am and cranking out hours of work, miles of running and god damn it, even my laundry basket is empty. But come mid February, I am a sofa bound sloth of a thing, armed with elasticated waistband, food strained sweaters and thermal socks. The thought of running makes me nauseous, going outside to walk the dog involves herculean effort and the only foodstuff I desire features the words ‘creamy’ or ‘crispy’. I swear that my body saves up throughout the year for a month long bout of PMS as my jeans struggle to contain my muffin top and I promise to stop with the candy every Sunday night like a Weight Watchers lifetime member. Mmmm sexy stuff. Thank god I’m single.

Last night I knew that my February blues had arrived as I cooked while on the phone with a friend. Well I say cooked.. more like standing in front of the fridge holding an onion and looking for inspiration;

‘sorry I’m distracted, I’m cooking’

‘ooh what are you making?’

‘well right now its onion’

‘huh…?’

‘it involves an onion and I can’t quite figure out what else’

‘well… I’m sure it will be delicious’

Sorry to say that it wasn’t and no, a boiled onion does not make a meal, no matter how much soy sauce you add. I probably could have whipped something up but frankly, I’d much rather eat cereal and think about how much I need a pedicure (because getting one right now seems just too much of an effort.. taking off socks?… ugh). Dating? Forget about it.. I can’t be bothered in anything which doesn’t involve 12 hours of sleeping. Narcoleptic? Step right up!

Now I’m sure that there are folks out there reading this and rolling their eyes at the indulgence of a single woman without kids who can’t be bothered to feed herself and definitely isn’t shaving her legs this month but here’s the thing. Its partially because we’re single and childless that we find ourselves in this state. Nobody is looking and nobody cares. If my jeans are into their 3rd week and I’ve been wearing the same sweater since last Thursday.. so what? All year round we motivate ourselves, keep pushing on, keep driving and striving to make life meaningful and enjoyable, fun and exciting.. but come February every year, its as though my psyche hits the snooze button, takes another hit on the metaphorical bong and says ‘why bother?’ 

At the age of 30-something I worried that maybe I’d caught a case of the clinical depressions and envisioned myself taking a long nap in a nice white hospital for a few weeks.. and met with a Eastern European doctor who seemed even more depressed than me. As I unburdened by concern about my lack of energy, interest in food, need for sleep and overall glumness, she signed and bemoaned in her heavily accented English;

‘ it is the SAD….You have the SAD. I have the SAD. You be ok. But is sad…’

Well with that diagnosis I wasn’t sure which of us was going to be reaching for the noose first, but after her prescription for huge doses of Vitamin D and a UV lamp, I found myself slightly appeased.
Ah seasonal affective disorder… what joy you bring!More pills and now I own ‘equipment’ for my aliments!!

Armed with my special lamp and my economy size bottle of vitamin D pills, I brace myself for February. And every year without fail, I drag my butt out of bed, drag myself through the work day (adding to my ever increasing ‘to do’ pile without any desire to ‘do’ any of it), and look forward to a 7pm bedtime. And I repeat to myself in a heavily accented Slavic accent ‘my SAD.. is sad’. It doesn’t change anything but it reminds me that its temporary and no, I’m not dying. 

As sure as eggs is eggs, come March 1st I know I’ll be back to my bouncy, overly energetic self and this period of glum February will disappear without trace until 2014. But today, I’ll defrost another quinoa burger, line up my Downton Abby and consider it a good effort.

Diseases I most definitely have

Living alone and working at home has many many advantages, not least your ability to spend an hour in the afternoon playing the hits of 1987 loudly while dancing with the dog  (god, The Stray Cats were good). On the downside, you don’t have anyone to bug when you’re wide awake at 2.20am and you think you might be dying. As one of my coworkers (and my mother) can attest, living alone with access to WebMD can make you something of a hypochondriac. Just this week I’ve had to talk myself out of calling the medics on several occasions. I most definitely, maybe, am sick with something. 

Monday: During first conference call of the day, noticed that voice had a somewhat strangled quality. One of the other callers asked if  okay, after which noticed that voice now sounded reedy and choked up.. almost as though was on the edge of tears. Have sobbed in  bathroom when at Microsoft but not normal and was related to Seattle weather more than anything. By the end of the call had determined that either have throat cancer or spasmodic dysphonia (in involuntary constriction in the throat). Spent the remainder of this week researching whether the recommended cure of Botox to the throat would also help smooth out those new wrinkles in neck. 

Tuesday: Stood up after a long stretch sitting at my desk, and felt some tingling and slight numbness in  legs. After walking around apartment feeling somewhat wobbly, decide that most definitely have early onset Parkinsons disease or MS. Have Googled both diseases on multiple occasions (causing repeated sticking of pins in various body parts to test whether feeling still there), decided instead to create an online will and research the cost of wheelchairs. Throat still strangled and weird. Wonder if maybe am going through puberty again, just this time as a boy?

Thursday: A blinding headache  accompanied by black squiggly lines and flashes across my eyeballs definitely wasn’t the usual migraine from running in cold weather without a hat. No, definitely had to be a blood clot in brain. Googled symptoms while wearing sunglasses and cold wet rag turban to calm throbbing, bleeding brain. Was on the verge of calling  mother to wish her goodbye when decided to spare heartbreak of a final conversation and just lay down to die. Woke up an hour later feeling much better but with a scratchy throat, so determined that it probably was just an early sign for meningitis. Voice now sounding like am actively weeping while trying to talk, has been most off putting for my boss who thankfully is now limiting his calls to about 2 mins. Very glad am not dating at the moment. Would be traumatic to be on date and sounding all choked up.

Friday: Couldn’t remember the term for ‘potluck’ this morning when sending a memo so clearly have early onset Alzheimers. Must start labeling objects around house in case it gets worse and can’t find the door. Note to readers: If you don’t hear from me again, its probably because can’t find the ‘Publish’ button on Blogger. Hmmm.. let me check WebMD for some other options.

The indignities of getting older


Nothing revels the nature of your nature like a rectal exam.

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?)

Family history (tick all that apply for siblings, parents and grandparents)

  • 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)

I’ve not even seen a doctor and I’m already wondering where they should scatter my ashes. The number of check marks is alarming to say the least. Wow am I unhealthy!

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.
 

WTF?

But don’t worry, he thinks that now is great time to discuss my dating status..

Soooooooits been 2 years since I saw you last. You were dating some guy.. how’s that going?”

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?”

“…”
ahhh well I guess it would be weird if you were 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.

Life at 40… plenty of new ‘hobbies’