Welcome to middle age, better known as the descent into strange and not-so-amusing bodily changes. First a bit of an introduction: My husband is 65 and I’m 56. This week has been interesting so far. Monday morning we threw on clothes and avoided any food or drink because Steve had a colonoscopy scheduled, and I had a physical scheduled.
QUESTION: Why would anyone want to stare at butts all day long, running scopes in and out of old, saggy, gray butts? I don’t trust these doctors; I think they are twisted, or paid extremely well.
The colonoscopy went fine and I drove Steve home where he crashed on his favorite recliner and proceeded to snore. I showered and went to my own doctor’s appointment.
Doctor: Well, Cindy. You are on a lot of medications.
Me: It hasn’t been my best year. First there was the psoriatic, rheumatoid arthritis flare (more like a volcanic eruption with molten lava searing my joints), my allergic reactions to Enbrel, Humira, and Orencia. The steroid shots and the discography.The nerve pain in my left arm and hand. And then the surgery—want to see the X-ray? Just a double disc fusion of the C7, C6, C5 vertebrae. No biggie. Payton Manning had one and he’s amazing. Me? I’ve still got burning nerve pain in left hand. I call it “Burning Hand Syndrome.”
Doctor: Hmm. (continues typing on computer without ever making eye contact. I think about adding a brain tumor just to see if he looks up, but decide it wouldn’t be in very good taste. Sigh.)
Me: By the way, my sense of smell is off. I have this weird odor that I smell all the time—and it’s not me! I don’t like coffee smells anymore and coffee was my signature drink. It was my holier-than-thou snotty prima-donna signature. What? You don’t buy locally roasted coffee? What? You don’t grind it daily and then use a french press in order to taste the fullness of the beans? You buy (cough cough cough) Starbucks?
Doctor: I don’t think your surgery caused your sense of smell to change.
I wait to see if he offers a suggestion—some sort of explanation as to why my sense of smell changed. Nada. I’m ready to find a witch doctor.
Me: Oh…and I’ve lost about a third of my hair, and by the way, see these kinky ringlet curls? I’ve NEVER had curly hair before. Maybe a slight wave, but are you seeing these curls? Really? I have to use intense hairdressing just to keep the frizz down.
Doctor: That’s weird. Hmmm.
Me: And then there’s the nausea. I’ve been nauseous for two months now and I don’t have the equipment to be pregnant anymore. In fact, I’m not sure I’m actually qualified to be a woman since don’t have the equipment. Doctor—this nausea is wiping me out. I’m cranky and snippy. Please fix me. Please fix me.
Doctor: Hmmm. We’re going to get a blood and urine sample today. I want to check your thyroid levels. I’m also going to schedule you for an upper GI.
Doctor: We need to figure out what’s going on. It could be your gall bladder or ulcers.
Me: I have no relationship with my gall bladder. It doesn’t bother me and I ignore it. I just want you to find out why I’m nauseous. I don’t want more tests. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THEY DID TO ME IN AUGUST? HMMM? THEY STUCK FOUR DIFFERENT NEEDLES INTO MY NECK TO REACH MY DISCS IN ORDER TO SHOOT THEM FULL OF DYE? It was not a pleasant adventure. I really don’t want any more tests. Can’t you just give me a ballpark diagnosis?
Doctor: (He said nothing because he’d left the room).
So, this Thursday I have to have an upper GI. I get to drink some sort of chalky barium stuff to make everything glow when they take X-rays. Joy. I can see how this is going to go down. The doctor won’t be able to find anything conclusive, so he’ll schedule an endoscopy. Down the throat with a probe looking for problems. If that is inconclusive, I’ll be the one with my tush in the air while some twisted doctor probes my intestines with a scope.
Meanwhile, I’ll trim up my growing fuzzy facial hair, pluck the hair out of my ear, use my neck creme to prevent further gobbler growth, find t-shirts that have long enough short sleeves to cover the wobble, and learn to love this sagging, bagging body. Oi vey, Lord. Couldn’t you have made growing older a bit more—dignified?
Tomorrow I’m going to check into prices for coffins. I figure it’s time to find a cemetery plot. Shoot, I may have to go lay on a few vacancies until I find the one I like best. Under a tree would be good.
This is my submission for The Weekly Writing Challenge