I spent my December seeing as many people with advanced degrees in the medical field as possible. How about you? I think you’re lying. Shame on you.

I spent some quality time in the microwave/claustrophobic tube. This was to check the status of my REDACTED. People, send me your contact info and I’ll add you to my HIPAA forms. Until then, I’ve got to keep some mystery here. I seem to adhere to that same philosophy when it comes to my docs. Read on for more on that madness. *eyeroll* Why those poor advanced-degreed people allow me to continue to step foot in their offices is beyond me. But, as I was saying, I did some time in the MRI/torture device due to my “issues” because I’m flawed genetically. If you’ve ever been here, you know that. You’ve read my stuff. I’m all kinds of flawed. You shouldn’t be surprised that it’s flowing through my DNA like a MOFO.

But despite the fact that it might look like I’m going to tell you about all the doctors I’ve visited on my December (maybe November, too?) tour, I’m actually here to tell you (AGAIN!) about how pathologically pathetic I am when it comes to recounting my medical history to these doctors when all they’re trying to do is help me out with the care and feeding of my physical being and tell you that it’s all because of GENETICS!!

My mother is just as bad about the specifics of medical crap. Which means the fault lies entirely with her. Or my Nana. I adored my Nana. And I adore my mother. So, either way the shade I’m throwing here is causing a little heartburn. But hey, it’s not my fault. It’s theirs. And I can live with that heartburn. As I was sitting with my mother who was kind enough to be my +1 for the MRI procedure. As we waited (AND WAITED) for me to get in the microwave and toast myself to a nice degree of “Eh, this sandwich is edible enough, but I’d prefer it a little warmer,” the two of us giggled ourselves silly over our inability to give any doctor a non-fictional accounting of our medical history.

I told my mother that I usually start with a really good energy. I’m upbeat and positive that this time will be different. I’m caffeine-equipped so I know that I can give the physician the appropriate amount of detail. But then the doctor asks something like, “Have you ever had an operation?” I usually start thinking to myself: “Obviously! I have two kids. They were both C’s. Because the first one was bad. Really bad. He was just not progressing. And then it was an emergency C and the epidural didn’t work and the pain when they cut into m….uh, the doc is starING AT ME!!! YES! TWO!” And then the doubt sinks in as I realize that I’ve been under anesthesia so many times that I’ll almost certainly need to ask for some clarification as to what constitutes an operation. I think to myself, “I had a hair baby.” [Ed. Note: People, please, trust. Don’t ask. Google this shit if you must. Dermoid cyst. Ovary. You’re welcome. Wait. No. I’m sorry. That’s the appropriate response.] The point is that I just shouldn’t be consulted on my own health history. I understand. You’re asking yourself either: A. Who in the hell should be consulted if not YOU!?! or B. WHAT IN THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU THAT YOU CAN’T BE IN CHARGE OF YOUR OWN MEDICAL HISTORY?? To you I say, you’re entirely correct. But I’m a different breed of cat. My problem can be summarized in the definition of the word “history” because I feel that my medical history is best left in the past. YMMV.

The moral of the story (so to speak) is that my mother is built similarly and she’s been running around town giving false or incomplete data to her doctors just as I have. And not in a malicious way. In the “I’m trying to help you but I have nothing for you but a vague recollection of something that happened to either me or an acquaintance” way. I’m so entertained by the knowledge that she and I are going to the medical professionals around this town driving them completely mad with our particular brand of ineptitude. It’s pathetic, but if you look at it in the right way, it can be endearing. You might need a really special brand of lenses.


Feed my skull resident...

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