Well, it’s a new dawn. It’s a new day. Especially when it comes to going to the doctor and being middle-aged.
Used to be, even at 40, that going to the doctor to get a new prescription each year for my Zyrtec-D medicine (ragweed sucks) was a five-minute experience. But now, just five years more into the decade where peri-menopause and the need for Botox become gruesome realities, five minutes turns into 57 really quickly.
Never was that clearer than this past week, when I had an appointment with Nancy C—a physician’s assistant at Buckingham Family Medicine—to get a refill on my seasonal allergy medication.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, while I sit next to her, fully clothed, groping my pocketbook (like a “fat person,” my mother always says, whatever that means) in the dark examination room.
And, we’re off…
10 minutes on the antidepressants:
“Well, you know, I’m off the antidepressants.” Not at all the reason why I’m here, but thought I’d share anyway.
She looks down at her electronic pad and clicks with purpose. “And how’s that going?”
“You know, Nancy,” I read her name tag, which had a P.A. on it. “Uh, I mean, Dr. Carnie, oh, uh, Nanc, it’s very interesting.” I never know what to call the physician assistant.
I launch into the story of how I’m recently married and how we wrote our own vows and how my husband sang me a love song and how touching his vows were and how there wasn’t a dry eye in the place and how I didn’t shed a tear and now I know why because since I’ve been off the drugs if I watch a bee pollinate a flower I find myself weeping and it’s just fascinating and how she might want to share this with some of her other patients who are thinking about weening themselves off since it’s all about giving back and how I should’ve weened myself more gradually because I suffered—oh, how I suffered—but then it was all worth it because I now cry with the best of them, on a dime if asked, which comes in handy if I ever get stopped by a traffic cop because you know how vulnerable they are to that a whole vulnerable female thingy of course my new son-in-law is a cop so that does help as well.
She looks at me. “Well, yes, they can numb the emotions. So is the Allegra still working for you?”
Five minutes on my allergies:
“Oh goodness, no. Allegra doesn’t do a thing. I take Zyrtec D.”
“You sure you need the D?”
“Thank GOD for the Zyrtec D. Last year, I swear, I begged my husband to take a carving knife and stab me in the chest, my allergies were so bad. NOTHING worked. And I mean nothing. I blew my nose straight through three Lifetime Television movies. And not in a good way, if you know what I’m saying.”
I pause and feel my eyes get teary. “Until the Zyrtec D. “ Thank God for medical technology. I need a moment.
“Great. So it is D?”
“Yes. Well, I think.” Now she’s confusing me. “I mean, I’m pretty sure that’s what it is.” I pull out an old prescription bottle I fill with Advil and keep in my pocketbook. But it’s the wrong label. “Oh shoot, this was the bottle from the old antidepressants.” I feel wistful. “Gosh, I mean, I could cry RIGHT NOW.”
She smiles, that sort of terrified smile you get when you’re not sure if the person you’re dealing with is homicidal.
“But you’re pretty sure it’s D?”
“I am, but why does it matter?”
“Well, just in case I have to justify it to the insurance company.”
“Oh, ahhh. D, yes, definitely. I’m super positive.” But not really.
Five minutes on getting a mammogram:
When did I last have one?
The good ol’ boob squish, I say with melancholy. “You know, if men needed to have that done, they’d have come up with a more civilized method, don’t you think?”
She smiles.
“The first time I went for a mammogram, I was so nervous. And my best friend, who trust me, has her own set of issues,” I snort, “made it worse by telling me to think about a band of thieves coming in to rob the place while my boob is stuck in the machine. Can you believe her?
“Well, I told the technician when I got there and she showed me the little lever or button or whatever to push to release my boob in an emergency. Hey, they don’t teach you that in Girl Scouts.”
Now, I’m laughing. NC looks at me like I’m crazy.
But I don’t think I am. I’ve been alive long enough now to know that anything could happen. Even this.
10 minutes on the gynocologist:
Me bad. The last time I went to the gynecologist, people were still debating whether Bush really beat Gore in the presidential election. Well, maybe not that long ago, but still. I tell Nancy, Dr. Carnie, whatever, that I just got a referral from a woman at the check-in desk, but still have to call. So, I’m going. I know I have to. And I’m REALLY sorry for waiting so long.
Like we’re friends and I haven’t paid her back that $20 she lent me a year ago.
While I go on and on about the fact that, well, I’m almost menopausal and feel it and have all kind of new issues going on, my sex drive is, well, interesting, and my ability to sleep variable and, please don’t tell me how much I weigh, because my fat wants to cling to me like a pack of leeches, and, well, where’s the joy? Where’s the love? What happened to the body that used to sleep and lose weight and get hot to trot just thinking about a naked foot?
And yet, doctor-sort-of-almost-or-close Nancy is starting to look bored.
I wait for her to probe me on some of these issues, but she doesn’t. She looks at her watch and the door. Laughs appropriately at my self-deprecating humor regarding the size of my crow’s feet and love handles, and remains safely focused on her electronics.
“Which name shall I use to refill the prescription? Your old name or your new one?” She let’s the fake pen rest precariously over the keypad.
I tell her both.
Five minutes on losing weight:
I can’t seem to do it, despite my devotion to Jenny Craig.
“Thanks to me, the center can afford to re-carpet.”
She seems nonplussed. Like she’s heard it all before. Like countless others before me have told her that they reason they can’t shrink their ass is because of 45. It’s 45’s fault.
Has nothing to do with the Lee’s Hoagie I had on Saturday and the leftovers I had on Sunday and the pretzels I ate last night because I was hungry and the four pieces of pizza I plan on having if I lose even two ounces (likely) during my weigh-in on Friday.
Well, if nothing else, she’s a good listener.
10 minutes on “the fall”:
I recount the details of my fall back in the park, when a biker ignored the signs to WALK HER BIKE and the dogs brought me down to a crashing tumble, and the bones in my left arm and elbow and who knows where else decided to twist and turn like sticks in a food processor and how I went to the hospital and got an x-ray where they didn’t find anything but that I still can’t put any pressure on it to, say, get up out of the bathtub or fluff my own pillows and that sometimes when I stretch it out really far, say to turn out the light on my nightstand before I pass out at the end of the day (and I mean pass out), I feel a sharp shooting pain as if somebody is pulling the bone right out of the joint. And I know I shouldn’t’ do it, but I forget because other than that I can use it, so I’m not sure if it’s just a minor bruise that the x-ray didn’t pick up or perhaps I’m seriously damaged and need surgery or perhaps it’s a permanent irritation that I’ll have to live with now that I’m old and my body isn’t healing like it used to.
“Well, where does it hurt?”
I press around my elbow and just above. And then I drop my hands. “I’m not sure.” And really, I know I should be, but I’m not. Because what if I show her the wrong spot and they do all this imaging and bloodwork, only to find nothing wrong or, even worse, that I was like 2.3 centimeters off from the real source of the problem. Of course, we’d learn this only after several days of testing, a few surgeries, loss of blood, and thousands of dollars.
Now that I think about it, it’s kind of unfair for her to even ask. I mean, I’m not a doctor. How should I know where it hurts?
Five minutes on my cholesterol:
Now that I’m thinking about all that’s wrong with me, I’m starting to get a bit worried. Perhaps I need my blood analyzed. This is a question I’ve been asking myself now several times a day, especially since Dan had his analyzed and can’t stop talking about the results. It’s like he’s PROUD that his cholesterol is higher than usual.
After all, at 50 years old, he doesn’t have an ounce of body fat (jerk), can eat whatever he wants and never gains weight. The man didn’t go to the dentist for 13 YEARS and, when he finally did, he came out with perfect dental health. I’m surprised they didn’t call Discovery Health to profile him in a special.
Even the people in the office were flabbergasted.
At every family dinner, we watch him eat whatever he wants—20-ounce steaks, pulled pork sandwiches, salads with real cheese and enough Thousand Island dressing to fill a bathtub. While our family genes have us gain weight from accidentally taking a sip of whole milk, Dan remains consistently svelte and muscular.
But now, I think he thinks that high cholesterol gives him legitimate entry into our family. “Wanna know what my bad cholesterol is?” he brags at dinner for my father’s birthday, proud like he’s just been nominated for an Emmy. Or, we’ll be shopping for sneakers and he’ll say, “Say, if I have high cholesterol, can I still eat eggs?”
Show off.
Well, I’ll show him. “And while you’re at it,” I say to NC. “Gimme a scrip for some blood analysis. I wanna know what my cholesterol is up to.”
Five minutes on my sex drive:
I start to tell her how much I love my husband but we do have a lot of stress—ex-wives accusing us of unspeakable horrors, lawyers calling for their money, step-children going back into cults, mothers falling and needing surgery, fathers going for PET scans, lines-of-credit soaring by the hour.
You know, the usual suspects.
She asks me if I want a flu shot.
I guess some people just aren’t comfortable talking about sex.
Two minutes on the flu shot:
Hey great! I’d never even think of it if she hadn’t offered it up, and consider her doing so a value add. I’d like to put that on a comment card, if they have one. I know I didn’t feel this way at first, but Dr. Not is turning out to be pretty darn terrific.
“Sure, I’ll take a flu shot!” As if a waitress had just asked me if I wanted pie with my whipped cream. “How much?”
“How much what?”
“How much does it cost?” I have no idea why I’m asking this. I mean, we can’t afford a Mercedes M-Class, but we can afford a flu shot.
She looks confused.
“Whatever! I’m worth it. Right?” I nudge her with my good elbow.
“Great,” she mumbles. “I’ll get the nurse.”
It’s amazing how a flu shot can just make everything seem better.
Now, you can imagine, that after all this time, I’m thinking we’re going to have to take out a third mortgage on our house (since we already have second to pay the lawyers for doing absolutely nothing wrong). So imagine to my surprise when the nice lady at the check out desk asked me for $10.
Everything should only be $10. It was great.
Of course, now I have to go get bloodwork, an arm x-ray, physical therapy, a pap smear, a mammogram, maybe a little psychotherapy, and after doing all that, who knows what else. But at least I don’t have to worry about my allergies anymore. I’m covered!
Until next time!
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Well, it’s a new dawn. It’s a new day. Especially when it comes to going to the doctor and being middle-aged.

Used to be, even at 40, that going to the doctor to get a new prescription each year for my Zyrtec-D medicine (ragweed sucks) was a five-minute experience. But now, just five years more into the decade where peri-menopause and the need for Botox become gruesome realities, five minutes turns into 57 really quickly.

Never was that clearer than this past week, when I had an appointment with Nancy C—a physician’s assistant at Buckingham Family Medicine—to get a refill on my seasonal allergy medication.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, while I sit next to her, fully clothed, groping my pocketbook (like a “fat person,” my mother always says, whatever that means) in the dark examination room.

And, we’re off…

10 minutes on the antidepressants:
“Well, you know, I’m off the antidepressants.” Not at all the reason why I’m here, but thought I’d share anyway.

She looks down at her electronic pad and clicks with purpose. “And how’s that going?”

“You know, Nancy,” I read her name tag, which had a P.A. on it. “Uh, I mean, Dr. Carnie, oh, uh, Nanc, it’s very interesting.” I never know what to call the physician assistant.

I launch into the story of how I’m recently married and how we wrote our own vows and how my husband sang me a love song and how touching his vows were and how there wasn’t a dry eye in the place and how I didn’t shed a tear and now I know why because since I’ve been off the drugs if I watch a bee pollinate a flower I find myself weeping and it’s just fascinating and how she might want to share this with some of her other patients who are thinking about weening themselves off since it’s all about giving back and how I should’ve weened myself more gradually because I suffered—oh, how I suffered—but then it was all worth it because I now cry with the best of them, on a dime if asked, which comes in handy if I ever get stopped by a traffic cop because you know how vulnerable they are to that a whole vulnerable female thingy of course my new son-in-law is a cop so that does help as well.

She looks at me. “Well, yes, they can numb the emotions. So is the Allegra still working for you?”

Five minutes on my allergies:

“Oh goodness, no. Allegra doesn’t do a thing. I take Zyrtec D.”

“You sure you need the D?”

“Thank GOD for the Zyrtec D. Last year, I swear, I begged my husband to take a carving knife and stab me in the chest, my allergies were so bad. NOTHING worked. And I mean nothing. I blew my nose straight through three Lifetime Television movies. And not in a good way, if you know what I’m saying.”

I pause and feel my eyes get teary. “Until the Zyrtec D. “ Thank God for medical technology. I need a moment.

“Great. So it is D?”

“Yes. Well, I think.” Now she’s confusing me. “I mean, I’m pretty sure that’s what it is.” I pull out an old prescription bottle I fill with Advil and keep in my pocketbook. But it’s the wrong label. “Oh shoot, this was the bottle from the old antidepressants.” I feel wistful. “Gosh, I mean, I could cry RIGHT NOW.”

She smiles, that sort of terrified smile you get when you’re not sure if the person you’re dealing with is homicidal.

“But you’re pretty sure it’s D?”

“I am, but why does it matter?”

“Well, just in case I have to justify it to the insurance company.”

“Oh, ahhh. D, yes, definitely. I’m super positive.” But not really.

Five minutes on getting a mammogram:
When did I last have one?

The good ol’ boob squish, I say with melancholy. “You know, if men needed to have that done, they’d have come up with a more civilized method, don’t you think?”

She smiles.

“The first time I went for a mammogram, I was so nervous. And my best friend, who trust me, has her own set of issues,” I snort, “made it worse by telling me to think about a band of thieves coming in to rob the place while my boob is stuck in the machine. Can you believe her?

“Well, I told the technician when I got there and she showed me the little lever or button or whatever to push to release my boob in an emergency. Hey, they don’t teach you that in Girl Scouts.”

Now, I’m laughing. NC looks at me like I’m crazy.

But I don’t think I am. I’ve been alive long enough now to know that anything could happen. Even this.

10 minutes on the gynocologist:
Me bad. The last time I went to the gynecologist, people were still debating whether Bush really beat Gore in the presidential election. Well, maybe not that long ago, but still. I tell Nancy, Dr. Carnie, whatever, that I just got a referral from a woman at the check-in desk, but still have to call. So, I’m going. I know I have to. And I’m REALLY sorry for waiting so long.

Like we’re friends and I haven’t paid her back that $20 she lent me a year ago.

While I go on and on about the fact that, well, I’m almost menopausal and feel it and have all kind of new issues going on, my sex drive is, well, interesting, and my ability to sleep variable and, please don’t tell me how much I weigh, because my fat wants to cling to me like a pack of leeches, and, well, where’s the joy? Where’s the love? What happened to the body that used to sleep and lose weight and get hot to trot just thinking about a naked foot?

And yet, doctor-sort-of-almost-or-close Nancy is starting to look bored.

I wait for her to probe me on some of these issues, but she doesn’t. She looks at her watch and the door. Laughs appropriately at my self-deprecating humor regarding the size of my crow’s feet and love handles, and remains safely focused on her electronics.

“Which name shall I use to refill the prescription? Your old name or your new one?” She let’s the fake pen rest precariously over the keypad.

I tell her both.

Five minutes on losing weight:
I can’t seem to do it, despite my devotion to Jenny Craig.

“Thanks to me, the center can afford to re-carpet.”

She seems nonplussed. Like she’s heard it all before. Like countless others before me have told her that they reason they can’t shrink their ass is because of 45. It’s 45’s fault.

Has nothing to do with the Lee’s Hoagie I had on Saturday and the leftovers I had on Sunday and the pretzels I ate last night because I was hungry and the four pieces of pizza I plan on having if I lose even two ounces (likely) during my weigh-in on Friday.

Well, if nothing else, she’s a good listener.

10 minutes on “the fall”:
I recount the details of my fall back in the park, when a biker ignored the signs to WALK HER BIKE and the dogs brought me down to a crashing tumble, and the bones in my left arm and elbow and who knows where else decided to twist and turn like sticks in a food processor and how I went to the hospital and got an x-ray where they didn’t find anything but that I still can’t put any pressure on it to, say, get up out of the bathtub or fluff my own pillows and that sometimes when I stretch it out really far, say to turn out the light on my nightstand before I pass out at the end of the day (and I mean pass out), I feel a sharp shooting pain as if somebody is pulling the bone right out of the joint. And I know I shouldn’t’ do it, but I forget because other than that I can use it, so I’m not sure if it’s just a minor bruise that the x-ray didn’t pick up or perhaps I’m seriously damaged and need surgery or perhaps it’s a permanent irritation that I’ll have to live with now that I’m old and my body isn’t healing like it used to.

“Well, where does it hurt?”

I press around my elbow and just above. And then I drop my hands. “I’m not sure.” And really, I know I should be, but I’m not. Because what if I show her the wrong spot and they do all this imaging and bloodwork, only to find nothing wrong or, even worse, that I was like 2.3 centimeters off from the real source of the problem. Of course, we’d learn this only after several days of testing, a few surgeries, loss of blood, and thousands of dollars.

Now that I think about it, it’s kind of unfair for her to even ask. I mean, I’m not a doctor. How should I know where it hurts?

Five minutes on my cholesterol:
Now that I’m thinking about all that’s wrong with me, I’m starting to get a bit worried. Perhaps I need my blood analyzed. This is a question I’ve been asking myself now several times a day, especially since Dan had his analyzed and can’t stop talking about the results. It’s like he’s PROUD that his cholesterol is higher than usual.

After all, at 50 years old, he doesn’t have an ounce of body fat (jerk), can eat whatever he wants and never gains weight. The man didn’t go to the dentist for 13 YEARS and, when he finally did, he came out with perfect dental health. I’m surprised they didn’t call Discovery Health to profile him in a special.

Even the people in the office were flabbergasted.

At every family dinner, we watch him eat whatever he wants—20-ounce steaks, pulled pork sandwiches, salads with real cheese and enough Thousand Island dressing to fill a bathtub. While our family genes have us gain weight from accidentally taking a sip of whole milk, Dan remains consistently svelte and muscular.

But now, I think he thinks that high cholesterol gives him legitimate entry into our family. “Wanna know what my bad cholesterol is?” he brags at dinner for my father’s birthday, proud like he’s just been nominated for an Emmy. Or, we’ll be shopping for sneakers and he’ll say, “Say, if I have high cholesterol, can I still eat eggs?”

Show off.

Well, I’ll show him. “And while you’re at it,” I say to NC. “Gimme a scrip for some blood analysis. I wanna know what my cholesterol is up to.”

Five minutes on my sex drive:
I start to tell her how much I love my husband but we do have a lot of stress—ex-wives accusing us of unspeakable horrors, lawyers calling for their money, step-children going back into cults, mothers falling and needing surgery, fathers going for PET scans, lines-of-credit soaring by the hour.

You know, the usual suspects.

She asks me if I want a flu shot.

I guess some people just aren’t comfortable talking about sex.

Two minutes on the flu shot:
Hey great! I’d never even think of it if she hadn’t offered it up, and consider her doing so a value add. I’d like to put that on a comment card, if they have one. I know I didn’t feel this way at first, but Dr. Not is turning out to be pretty darn terrific.

“Sure, I’ll take a flu shot!” As if a waitress had just asked me if I wanted pie with my whipped cream. “How much?”

“How much what?”

“How much does it cost?” I have no idea why I’m asking this. I mean, we can’t afford a Mercedes M-Class, but we can afford a flu shot.

She looks confused.

“Whatever! I’m worth it. Right?” I nudge her with my good elbow.

“Great,” she mumbles. “I’ll get the nurse.”

It’s amazing how a flu shot can just make everything seem better.

Now, you can imagine, that after all this time, I’m thinking we’re going to have to take out a third mortgage on our house (since we already have second to pay the lawyers for doing absolutely nothing wrong). So imagine to my surprise when the nice lady at the check out desk asked me for $10.

Everything should only be $10. It was great.

Of course, now I have to go get bloodwork, an arm x-ray, physical therapy, a pap smear, a mammogram, maybe a little psychotherapy, and after doing all that, who knows what else. But at least I don’t have to worry about my allergies anymore. I’m covered!

Until next time!
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