Doctor, Doctor, Give Me the News

Here's an excerpt from a post I wrote for BlogHer* on Tuesday about couples and yearly check ups:

I don't have a primary care physician. Instead, I have in my contacts list** (in alphabetical order) an:
-Allergist (2-3 visits yearly)
-Breast surgeon (2 visits yearly)
-Dentist (2 visits yearly)
-Dermatologist (as needed, but usually once every four or five years)
-Gastrointerologist (as needed, which hasn't been for over a year, but at one point was once a month)
-Gynecologist (1 visit yearly)
-Ophthalmologist (1 visit yearly)
-Podiatrist (only used once, after I stepped on a sea urchin in Hawaii)
-Reproductive endocrinologist (2 appointments to determine whether I had PCOS, but I keep the name just in case, sort of like the podiatrist)

With all my various parts cared for, who needs an internist? For the first time in four years, I visited a primary care doctor back in August, but only because some forms filled out to enroll in school. That is when I discovered that my "regular" doctor left the practice at least two years ago. Ooops. The new doctor managed to screw up my vaccine schedule, which makes me less inclined to return for care. Whenever I need a new doctor for any of my organs, I usually can just turn to friends for advice. (If I count my doctor friends, I also have two pediatricians, another dentist, another OB-GYN, another breast surgeon, and multiple colo-rectal surgeons in my contacts list. Plus one primary care physician who I would never trust, but that's another story.)

Probably it would be good to have a primary care doctor to coordinate all my files and keep track of what is going on with me and my team of specialists. Ironically, though, I hate doctors. The thought of adding one more doctor whose job it is to just follow along seems like such a waste of time. I have good cholesterol, my blood pressure is nice and low, and my sodium is a-OK. My weight is healthy for my frame, and I don't smoke, do drugs, or drink. I am the picture of good health, except for all of the specialized health problems that I have...

*And thank you, Zandria, for being the sole comment on that post! :)
*Also, I could use a good therapist to deal with my stress and frustration levels, if anyone in New York City has a recommendation... Anyone?

Neighborliness

I couldn't fall asleep last night. As I lay in the darkness, listening to Husband breathe, clinging to Theo (my teddy bear), my mind would not let go of several disturbing things that I'd read over the past few months. Basically, we are in this whole mortgage meltdown mess because a lot of people feel no remorse about ripping their neighbors off. Brokers unethically baited-and-switched homebuyers into loans different than those promised, pocketing huge fees for luring unsuspecting borrowers into riskier loans that were more lucrative for banks to package, securitize, and sell to unsuspecting investors. I read an article about credit card debt collectors lying to grieving relatives about their responsibility to pay for their deceased loved one's debt, then justifying it by saying that they were doing people a favor by letting them clear the air. When I can't fall asleep because the amoral behavior of other people keeps me awake, I wonder why those people don't have consciences and how that happened.

I was particularly distressed last night because earlier that evening, my mom told me that they have had to help their next door neighbor several times over the last ten days. My parents have shared a driveway with Mrs. S for over 33 years. When my sister and I were kids, she invited us over to bake traditional Danish Christmas cookies and decorate her tree with paper basket ornaments. She also hosted a Christmas party for the neighborhood kids, teaching us how to play moose (I have no idea if I spelled that properly), a game with cookies that are the size of pebbles. We also went on chocolate egg hunts at her home during Easter. Even today, Mrs. S brings a plate of Christmas cookies and homemade marzipan to my parents every December.

When my sister was born, I slept in one of Mrs. S's spare bedrooms. When my mom was taken to the hospital once in the middle of the night, Mrs. S opened her door to my footie pajamaed body. When I first figured out why toilet seats were necessary, I was on an overnight visit at Mrs. S's house. I sleepily crept down the hall and plunked myself down on the toilet without looking, only to be rudely awakened by cold water lapping at my tushie. For some reason, Mrs. S had left the seat up.

Ever since my parents moved into their house, they also kept an eye on Mrs. S. She has diabetes, and sometimes would fall into a diabetic coma. Many times over the years, my dad rushed over in the middle of the night after my mom looked out our kitchen window and into Mrs. S's and noticed that she was behaving oddly. Her friends and relatives would call our house when they were worried that Mrs. S didn't answer the phone, and ask us to see if her car was in the driveway, and if so, check on her. My parents did this with no complaints; why would they mind helping out?

Anyway, my parents received dozens of calls from Mrs. S's family last week, and also had to call the paramedics a few times when she was not responsive to a glass of orange juice or insulin, depending on the situation. When my mom mentioned something to a co-worker about a 2:30 am check in she made, her colleague said that it was very nice of my parents to be so concerned.

"Why wouldn't we be?" my mom wondered.

"A lot of people," her co-worker sighed, "just dont' care."

I know that these people justify their actions in many ways, but it boggles my mind that they sleep soundly at night, while I stay up worrying about the world.

I'm Not that Senile Yet (I Hope)

I sat slack in my chair, staring blankly at the computer screen, when Husband walked into the living room.

"I forgot what I was doing," I told him, not that he asked.

"You were making a doody," he nodded.

"Do you think that its a good idea to encourage me like that?"

"Right. I forgot who I was talking to."

Lord, I Was Born a Rumbling Man

The less pleasant symptoms of my undiagnosed mysterious digestive ailment returned last week, making my life stink. These include:

• Gas that could kill infants, toddlers, and small animals;


• Explosive bowel movements that fill a toilet bowl; and


• Acid reflux.

Thus far I have been spared the once a month, wake up in the middle of the night vomiting that is so violent it comes through my nose. Unfortunately, I also have not experienced the only upside of this misery: weight loss!* Even more disappointing, my ailment strikes hardest during my free time. So while my evenings and weekends are spent groaning and trying not to smoke Husband out of the apartment with my toxic fumes, the stupid condition doesn't lead me to miss work. It's bullshit.

Still, the other odors in the air at the Allman Brothers concert that I attended on Friday night were far stronger than my noxious gases, so I didn't feel too self-conscious in that regard. The show did remind me how conservative I am at heart. Not only is smoking not permitted in public places in New York City, but the historic theater that the show was at was recently restored, so I was seething from the second the envelope of various smokes enrobed my head when when I walked through the lobby. People were also spilling their beers everywhere. Between the ashes and the beverage, I fumed about the useless of restoring the building. Plus, all the smoke gave me a headache and made my throat itch. Later, I fell asleep during one of the many jam sessions. I did groove to special guest Bruce Willis's harmonious harmonica, though. That was exciting.

Rumble, rumble.

*No need to worry, though, I'm just trying to look on the bright side of a bad situation; every cloud has it's silver lining; etc.; etc.)

Craftiness

Craft shops are my shopping weakness. It's impossible for me to walk out of an art/craft supply store without at least one thing for which I have almost no use. My apartment is littered with cute rubber stamps, cross-stitch supplies (canvas, thread, needles, patterns), cray-pas, and tubes of acrylic paint. I want to make things from these supplies, but need another two hours a day if I am to do so.

My ultimate craft supply impulse purchase, though, is googly eyes. However, unlike the other materials that create clutter in my cramped quarters, googly eyes are at least useful. One never knows when a sudden need for googly eyes will arise!

A few years ago, I won an enormous dildo in a raffle at a Planned Parenthood fundraiser. When I arrived home, I placed it on the bookcase next to our computer. The next day I was out and about, but Husband used the computer all day. Upon my return, I noticed something odd about my new sake penis. Husband explained that it was making him uncomfortable to be stared at with only one eye, so he reached into my googly eye drawer, extracted two googly eyes, and taped them on the dildo.* It was hilarious. Once again, googly eyes save the day!

*I posted photos of this, but I am craftily blogging from work, so I don't think I can look up the post to link to it.

Crazy Old Aunt Suzanne

The tech person at work helped me figure out how to use the chat function on my computer, as the director decreed that this is how we should communicate internally as of this week. I could't find the icon on my desktop, in the right corner at the bottom of my screen, or on the program menu.

"Just click on the balls," Greta said. (The program's icon is two circles.)

"I don't have an balls," I cracked.

After Greta inspected my machine and installed the program, I still had issues. "Greta, my balls don't like to be clicked on," I duky reported.

We snickered. She said that I should watch myself a bit more, though. "The problem is that I can't," I explained. "I'm like the crazy old aunt that no one wants to be seen in public with."

"You're not old enough to be that bad yet."

"I know! I'm so fucked."

You Belong to the City

Cue the saxophone...

It is a few minutes before one when I step off the subway, yet the 72nd Street platform is full of people waiting to get home or to their late shift at work. My raincoat flaps in the breeze created by the train as it roars out of the station, and the odor of unwashed bodies fills my nostrils. I look for the homeless person(s) responsible for the smells, but the only people I see are "regular" folks like me or subway workers climbing onto the tracks in their neon orange vests, lanterns in hand.

As I exit the station and walk through the deserted plaza, where just a week or two ago an evangelical cult tried to teach me about the dangers of temptation by waiving free granola bars in my face during the morning rush hour (I took one, but I stored it in my desk drawer, in case of an emergency, so take that, missionaries!), I heard my name. "Good night, Suzanne!" I looked up from the stone pavers and smiled at the doorman from my building, heading back to his family. "Good night, Felix."

In the few blocks to my apartment, I passed a ConEd crew entering a manhole, workers at a corner bodega bustling to arrange bouquets of flowers, and a short man in a puffy coat walking a tiny dog with pink ribbons. Upon entering my building, the night security guard greeted me. "You been gone since I saw you this morning?"

"Yeah, it's been a long day," I said and we grinned.