Neurotic Owl

flying through clouds of uncertainty on wings of existential dread

I went to the doctor Tuesday, so I know just how he feels.


(In a fictional world where ‘he’ isn’t totally me.  Still have no idea why one of my alter egos ended up male.  Meh.)

Anyway, doctors, eek.  It went well, I should hasten to say (but when do I say things quickly or get to the point EVER?), it’s just terrifying.  So you know how, when you see a new doctor (especially a new GYN, so dudes, you may not know this), they have you fill out a medical history questionairre about the incidence of depression and thyroid disorder and heart disease and cancer in your family?  And my response is always yes lots, yes indeedy, ?, and ?.  Sad but true, I totally didn’t know what my grandparents, particularly on my mom’s side, died of.

So naturally I asked her about it while we were out at a nice dinner on the way to the opera, because timing, thy name is me.  Turns out it’s yes lots, yes indeedy, yes but not the kind you’re worried about, and ditto.  Basically, they’re worried about cancers that are genetically linked, and mouth cancer almost certainly caused by years of smoking, not so much.  Let me tell you, though, next time you want to make a dinner out super awkward?  Be discussing Grandma’s hepatitis or Grandpa’s bleeding ulcers when the waitress brings more bread.

Anyway, I lurve my new GYN, who is not the one I intended to see but instead the one who could see me when the original one was out sick, and she said I’m normal, which proves she’s either talking about only physical things or doesn’t know me yet, and she also let me keep my clothes on for our first meeting and delayed paper gown time as long as possible, and was insanely gentle, and didn’t get after me about my weight, because, really, doctors?  I have mirrors.  I’m aware.  You shush now.

The nurse was also totally supportive during the weighing, which I’ve talked my way out of during other recent doctor visits, and totally understood my request not to know the number (because that only upsets me, which causes me to eat, or, more destructively, stop eating.  Like, at all), and said, “Oh, you’re ok” when she saw whatever it was, which is kind of a lie but comforting.  I mean, on a given scale of ok, I totally am.  I’m reasonably healthy, reasonably active, my body mostly does what I tell it, and when it doesn’t it’s my own fault for hurting it during all those years of dancing, so really?  Can’t be that bad.

Wow, I talked a lot this time.  I will be more laconic some other day.

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