So, about a month ago I had a medical scare involving my heart beating funny. Well, after blood tests, the concern came back that my iron was pretty low. We discussed my diet, blah blah blah, I went back to taking my Flinstones Chewables, eating more leafy greens, whatever.
A month goes by, and two days ago I follow my instructions and get more blood drawn to see how we're doing. I make an appointment for Friday and figure the doctor will tell me that everything is swell now. Instead, the next day the doctor calls me wanting to talk. As a rule, doctors do not ever call with good news.
Well, my iron is still low, and while that can be caused by all sorts of innocuous things, there is a big one that isn't innocuous, which is internal bleeding caused by who knows what. So, the doctor cancels my appointment and instead hooks my up with a new appointment on Monday to see a gastroenterologist to see if something yucky is happening internally (actually, I would assume that something yucky is always happening internally, so I should say something dangerously yucky).
I can not properly express my trepidation at this information. See, I know how these people work. It'll start out innocently enough. They will ask about my family history. They feel around my stomach, maybe asking if it hurts when they push in one spot or another. Next thing I know, the lights will go down, someone will put in a Barry White cd, and the doctor will be lubing up a tiny camera and assuring me that he will still respect me afterwards.
I don't know how to type a shudder, but if I did, I would.
Regardless of my discomfort with the situation here, I don't really have a choice. I'm feeling pretty run down, and this morning I woke up with what felt like a bad hangover, which I typically don't mind but since I didn't go to bed drunk I'm not thrilled with. Also, the fact is that the men in my family tree aren't exactly known for their impressive life spans, a family tradition I have every intention of breaking. So no matter how humiliating it may be, I will proceed with whatever the doctor insist upon.
You think they'll send me flowers afterwards?
1 comment:
Be thankful that the cameras have gotten smaller.
Rumor is that Charlie Chaplin stuck to silent films because the site of a six-foot, hand-cranked, movie camera made him cry uncontrollably.
Chin up, Bob, call me anytime if you'd like to chat.
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