My work is done here people. I mizewell go back to bed now.
When you dialed the house of the parentals for these past oh...fifty-ish years? Not only do you get to use the Exact Same Phone Number-which is a luxury-it's gonna be a Sad Sad Day when that number belongs to someone else, but if my Dad would answer, he'd perform the 3 second phone pass in which the receiver would be passed to 'Your Mother' and she'd probably find some nice place to sit because talking was going to happen. A lot of it.
Now it's he and I. I call everyday. I try to have cool stories but most of the time there's nothing new. Which is bad but it's good-generally speaking. The coolest thing? I never knew how hard he could laugh. It is a marvelous thing.
The minor roar of laughter came after I got him going about having spent 15 seconds of the early morning being barked at by a K-9 Unit. I mean, think about that. There we were, minding our own business when this evil psycho bark came through the air.
It was fantastic.
The major howl was when I told him about The Diarrhea Guy.
Mercifully, my insurance came back and in the meantime I'd gotten one of those robo-calls about my annual physical so I went ahead and called and was able to get in next day-which is fantabulous-so then I did what I always do and that's called make a list.
(You'll notice I'm going to be doing more drawings or at least I'm going to try. I massaged the Coolest Person. She teaches Medical Ethics. She rocks a PhD. Wow.-And last time I saw her? She was ready to chat and she told me about this thing that exists now called 'Graphic Medicine'. And I think maybe maybe maybe it might slow me down a bit and there's nothing wrong with that.)
Anyway yeah. And behold my usual TMI in which I reveal that I've overdone it with harsh detergents in the hand washing category of massage and I bring your attention to number 2. Which looks like the Partridge Family bird, no? Kind of a little bit.
Okay so, I was leaving Improv last week and if you ever want to see me work at the height of my squirming intelligence, watch me try to explain my unusual personal digestive output to a doctor. (It was not diarrhea.)Turns out on this very topic, I use my hands a lot and look toward the ceiling because I'm trying to filter out elementary-school level description.
They should have a broad vocabulary of available words like the Eskimos have for snow, ya know? Shit.
And that's another thing. At the same time, I'm desperately trying to avoid expletives.
I know that might look like a baby talking but
I am 54 and this is not The Weekly World News.
I share that the aftermath of all of this surgical/procedural stuff is that my gut-if you will and you don't have to-now announces itself. Loud. Well in advance of any impending action. It's like a portable internal symphony of sound. I'm sure I lose massage points over it. People complain about anything.
(Full disclosure. I complain when food is served that is not hot. It just strikes me as wrong. Heat is free. It is not truffles.)
Primary Care kinda tilts his head looking at me and we go through what we think it's not. Like he asks questions-have you lost a lot of weigh lately? Unfortunately no, I say. But that's a good thing in this case, he says. And it goes on like that.
It's a cool thing because I get to say what I think it's not. I think it is not cancer. I think it is not ____. I think it is not ____. But I don't know what it is. And it's not that much fun.
He says, okay the good news is that I'm not going to send you for another colonoscopy. I'm not afraid of colonoscopies, says me. They saved my life. Okay so, he says, better than having me guess-I think I'm going to send you to the Diarrhea Guy.
The what? There's a guy? What?
It's the kind of physician that deals with things like IBS and colitis and I'm like...oh. There's a guy for that? Wow.
My Dad thought that was HIGHlarious.
Primary Care is going to see what the colonoscopy guy and the surgeon think and get back to me but he thinks I need to visit The Diarrhea Guy.
We also had a hearty exchange about Vitamin D. The difference between being prescribed D2 and D3? You're gonna love this. It's what insurance companies are willing to pay for. Form follows dysfunction, huh.
And we talked all about moles. It's not the big ugly ones that are worrisome. It's the little irregular ones. Which is interesting to me because one of my jobs is to look at people's skin for hours at a time and it's all good to know. Ya know?