One day last fall it occurred to me with certainty that neither my household nor my workplace had the slightest chance of surviving without me. The realization made me feel important and invaluable and especially anxious. I thought shit, man. I’d better stick around. Thus began the making of the appointments to tune up and repair all the various bits and parts of my body that were showing definitive signs of wear and tear.
I have a thing about going to doctors, I always expect them to say: "You’re fine, you big baby. Stop wasting my time." I think this disposition was born in my youth when we never had to go to the doctor other than to Dr. Flynn’s office for routine check ups, where the big eyed cat clock’s tail ticked the passing seconds. If we were sick, we had our own personal school nurse to determine whether or not we were faking/fine. If we were really sick, Dad would administer a throat culture or impromptu exam and prescribe whatever it was that we needed. As a young parent, it was always difficult to determine whether or not various offspring were sick-sick or just fussy-teething-weirdo-sick. It seemed like 9 out of 10 times I’d find myself being reassured and sent away after wasting precious hours in miserable waiting and exam rooms
Making numerous appointments for myself was both rewarding and stressful. Which of my aches and pains were worthy of mention? Did I really want a referral to specialists for something that only hurts some of the time?
Thankfully, all of my girl parts checked out just fine, and can be left to their own devices for the next several years. My teeth required a bit more follow up to shore up old repairs and avoid the need for new ones. So that just left the aches and the pains.
I accepted a referral for physical therapy to address issues that were the likely cause of ongoing trouble with my knees, and it helped. At the end of that protocol I had custom orthodics made for my tootsies, and skipped along on my merry way until I started to experience a new and different pain in a new and different place. After a couple of month of convincing myself that it was fine, you big baby, I went back to my doctor to have it checked out. The xray came back normal, and she referred me to a podiatrist. Gulp. A specialist! I was like uggggggggghhhh.
I talked myself out of going about 20 times and then actually tried to cancel the appointment because I was having a bad day, but they wouldn't let me cancel without calling on the phone so I said FINE. I got there... you guys, have I told you how awesome my health care situation is these days? They are so NICE. They offer me coffee/tea/bottled water when I check in, they have high tech services and a beautiful facility, I don't even bring my book anymore because I usually get called back before they are even done checking me in. Anyhoo, I did all of that at the podiatry office and the check in woman said: "you're in really good hands with Dr. Hernandez" and I was like great, he's some superstar and there's nothing even wrong with me. sigh. So I go back to the room with it's giant throne and the nurse props up my feet and pulls up my xrays on the computer and ask me some questions, then the Dr comes right in and he's so cute and nice and funny and I am immediately telling him that I'm fine and should go home. He asked me a few more questions and nodded, then he reached out and touched my foot in the EXACT spot where it kills me, I was like YOUCH, dude! But he knew exactly where and what it was (a neuroma) and gave me the info about treatment options and we joked and laughed and walked (hobbled) out together. And really, there’s not a point to this post at all, except that I wanted to feature this photo because it’s awesome.