I spent most of my day Wednesday packin' heat. Of the smelly, steamy, poopy variety. That's right, ladies. For a good portion of the day, I walked around town totin' poop in a lovely handbag which my sister gave me for my birthday to "hip" me up. When she gave it to me, she instructed me to not sling it over my shoulder, or walk with it dangling from my elbow, trying to imitate a pretentious Hollywood diva, or fill it so full that it would not drape just so. I'm sure she never envisioned that she would need to instruct me not to fill it with Waste. I'm not talking about the the kind of waste that you accidentally step in and trail around on your shoe. Or the kind securely wrapped up in a dirty nappy that you forgot to remove from your diaperbag. No, no. This was the real deal. And really, really gross.
I went to the doctor two weeks ago at the insistence of my friends who were concerned that I had not visited the doctor for an "annual" in over four years. They even stood in my kitchen after handing me the phone to dial the doc to make sure that I made the appointment.
At my first appointment at the base Women's Clinic, I waited for a doctor to come and take care of the really private business that even I know better than to write about on this blog. I sat in my paper gown, regretting that I had not exercised, or watched my diet, or lotioned my ash-y legs, or taken care of my pedicure, which was six months old and really, really chippy, and hoped I had put on my paper towel gown correctly. But mostly, I hoped that my doctor would be a girl. You never know who you're going to get in a military base hospital.
But my doctor walked in, told me my gown was NOT on correctly and that his name was Brian. And he had to keep running out to check with his resident to make sure he was saying and doing the right things. Because, apparently, he was not a real doctor yet. Didn't even have the white coat.
At my next appointment, to take care of the REST of the physical, the less embarrassing parts, I made sure to ask how to put on the gown correctly, lotioned up my legs, but still forgot to deal with my pedicure. Which was fine because when the doctor walked in, he was only interested in checking out one particular area and talking about one particular issue from my medical history. I mentioned all my aches and pains and pointed out all my questionable areas, but he attributed them all to age....I got the big, "Let's wait and watch it" diagnosis on every one of my complaints.
No, no. The Good Doctor was having none of that old age malady business. All he was interested in hearing about was my episodes last year with the infernal Pinworms and whether I had ever brought in a sample for analysis....a stool sample. He thought that double checking for parasitic infection would be a great idea. And as he examined me, he was sure to remind me that although this might be terribly embarrassing and uncomfortable for me, HE was a doctor and did this EVERY DAY. And then he asked me to make a follow-up appointment with the nurse, who told me he was only available two days each month because...wait for it....He's a RESEARCH doctor. He doesn't work in a clinic.
So, it turns out that after two trips, I've yet to see a REAL doctor who knows their way around women's parts and women's issues.
See why it took me over four years?
The doctor had suggested that I just give the sample to my husband to drop off in the lab for me, to save me a trip out to the base. He said to make sure it was as fresh as possible.
Let me tell you. John was not into that. He has a cow if I even leave the door open when I'm in the bathroom. He wasn't about to tote around my "sample". He wouldn't even carry it when he escorted me to the lab today. I don't know if I would do it for him either.
Which makes me think that we will be shelling out a lot of dough one day for a home healthcare nurse to come change our diapers.
Oy. Now that stinks.