We interrupt our regularly scheduled blog programming about yoga and fitness to bring you this story...
Ok, I'm comin' out of the closet!!! The water closet that is. I'm sick and tired of keepin' it in and like my mother always says, "Better out than a poor man's eye!"
Over the last year, I have been battling strange (bladder and lady) symptoms that a gal at my age should not be battling. Let me be vague. Just 'cause I'm comin' out of the closet doesn't mean I have to show you what I left in there!!
I've seen 6 doctors of different specialties, none of which could really diagnosis me with anything in particular but were happy to charge me so much money that in toll, has cost me more than my first car.
My 'symptoms' have kept me from enjoying my life fully, doing the things I love and the things I hate too. It has taken me over.
At first, I was like, nah, to drugs and surgery. Now that we're at almost a year and a few grand in the hole with nothing to show for it, I'm like, bring it the F on. Give me mass quantities of drugs and surgeries et al.
What's wrong with you?!?!
I know. I'm still asking myself the same question.
Needless to say, what I 'have' is something old women or women with many children get, not a young vibrant girl like moi. No sirree.
I've been commuting down to Long Beach now for the last month to see the 'God-Doctor'. That's not his name. I'm protecting his name to protect those innocent around him.
Besides being 900 years old with the head the size of the great pumpkin, this guy is the complete opposite of good bedside manner. And yet, he is the 'God-doctor'. I can't imagine enduring him for one lecture let alone studying under his guidance.
Nurse Marissa, a lovely and quiet lass checks my vitals. At least I think that's what it’s called. That's what they say in Grey's Anatomy. Ya know, blood pressure, weight...height?!?! I haven't been heighted since the DMV, when I was 20 and blonde.
First trauma. I'm not 5' 8". Nope. I've been living my life thinking I was taller than I am.
I'm 5' 7" and I had her do it twice I was in such shock.
Then, my weight. Always a sore subject with any female. Yup, of course. You saw it coming to right? Gained three pounds. I haven't been eating a thing, I'm all stressed out and here are a few pounds to compound your stress.
Within moments of meeting my 6th doctor - the 'God-doctor,' he spoke few words, asked no questions, told me to 'relax' which you just about never say to anyone without it getting under their skin.
I start sobbing, something I rarely do and then he cleans his hands, walks out and tells me he'll see me next week for more testing.
Ok, well, how did this one go?
Oh, excuse me, that's just me choking on his dust. He was out of that room so fast. It took him no time to skewer me and yet I waited 55 minutes just to see him for two minutes.
That'll be $300 please.
This dude is old school and he has his series of tests you have to do weekly to give your 'organs' (to be vague), a break.
I leave the office, sobbing, uncontrollably now. I just want my mom and a cookie. Chocolate chip, to be precise. And warm, please.
I don't know what I would have done if it wasn't for Sylvia who promptly wrapped her arms around me and told me I would be ok.
I just needed to hear that, even though I knew. Thanks Sylvia.
And dear Surye for handing me tissues and telling me that everything was going to be ok, even though I wasn't so sure. Little angels in that office.
Do I get a plastic giraffe, a matchbox car or a piece of gum for this?
Just 'cause I'm not a kid anymore, doesn't mean I don't want a prize for getting through this exam.
And I'll have to wait for the cookie. I have a long drive ahead.
And so the weekly commute continues. Each week gets more unbearable. I bring a buddy the following week and the support was sooo needed.
More things being stuck up me.
I've spread my legs for more guys this year and, no, it was not good for me.
I make jokes to get through the moments. Marissa talks to me because 'God' doesn't know how to.
Mr. Personality tells me that my jokes are a defense mechanism an I explain to him that it's all part of my big performance, the one I'm going to do at the end of this nightmare. I will charge a large cover and only invite those in the medical profession.
I can see it now. There is a big musical number where I am supine, legs in a V and back up dancers in brightly colored scrubs and crocs kickin' it Rockette style while I sing a tune of epic grandeur about my life in a doctor's office.
What's wrong with that girl? She acts like she's got a rod up her.
Well, that's because I do.
Still no freekin' cookie.
Week three and I have to re-take a test that I already took less than six months ago. Apparently God doesn't think that the other doctors in his profession meet to his standards.
This test is the crescendo.
The one where there are so many things stuck in me, I may as well be a voodoo doll.
And, I'm alone.
Dr. P is playing the role of God and he is the complete opposite of 'bad' bedside manner. The man sat and listened to me tell him what I've been through over the last year, every symptom and doctor and woe. Not one doctor I have met, thus far, had the compassion and empathy I saw from this man and his staff.
Give him a rag and a bottle of Jack and he would have been a bar tender. And I would have been drunk.
And it might have actually made the test go over well. But alas, I was not.
God love him.
The real God, not the 'God-doctor'.
Although I knew what to expect with this test, it made it even worse. I knew what to expect, how painful it would be and how long it would take.
It didn't matter how much yogic breathing I did, I just could not relax.
All calm, yoga, relaxation, no matter how much I tried to control it, went out the window. It got to a point where I started to feel light headed, my hands and feet went numb AND they gnarled, curling in stiff weird directions. What the F!
I've never experienced that before.
The waterworks opened for business and I let it all go. The whole year of sobs, sadness, pain and frustration that I had held in and tried to hold together.
Dr. P tried to calm me down and Surye, 'The Great,' tried talking me down from the ledge I had apparently found myself on and did not know how to get off of without help.
I was so freaked, I had to call my mom.
Picture it, me supine, things stuck in me, doctor holding my hand, legs in a V, beautiful nurse in brightly colored scrubs and crocs and me, not singing a happy tune, but wailing like Snoopy to my mother. Sound familiar?
I'm at an age where I'm not quite sure the following exchange is acceptable. See below.
Me, between gasps, "Mom, I'm at the doctor."
Mom, "Are you OK? How did it go?"
Me, "No, you don't understand, I'm still here and I'm in pain and scared and freaking out. Like panic attack freak out."
Mom, "Well, when the doctor comes back in the room, tell him you already had the test and that they will have to accept the results of the test you took a few months ago."
Me, "Mom, the doctor is here, with me, holding my hand."
Mom, "He is!! Put him on the phone!! Let me talk to him!"
Hmmm, The rest, I couldn't hear.
My sobs turned to fits of laughter and embarrassment as I could hear only my mother ranting on and Dr. P just nodding calmly and looking up from underneath my gown.
I thought, this idea must be a monologue someday.
I think she scolded him or ripped him a new one or just reiterated my feelings in a Shirley McClain - Terms of Endearment kind of way.
Dr. P agreed to cancel the test.
Surye told me everything would be ok.
Que Sera, Sera, Whatever Will Be, Will Be. (That's how you say her name).
For the love of all things good and holey (pun intended) would someone please give this girl a cookie!?!??!
When I knew I was literally off the hook, Dr. P told me that he would review all of my tests, charts and files and that I didn't need to see God again. He would handle my situation and we'll go from there.
This story is to be continued. Although I didn't have the test today and I am weary with emotional exhaustion and in physical pain, I am taking an hour off to rest before going off into the world again.
And you bet your ass I'm comin' back home with a cookie.