Something that happened to me on Friday had me thinking all weekend about how celebrities handle regular life.
Let me get you caught up: I’ve been feeling like doggy-doo for a few weeks now. At first I thought it was this mysterious rash that came and wouldn’t go away. Then that got better, but I still wasn’t feeling well. I was having other “issues” as well…but I put it all off, thinking that with time, everything would improve. After a month of misery, I finally made an appointment.
I called and they scheduled me for the “earliest” appointment available, which was the last week of July. *sigh* Oh well, I was going to suck it up until I could see MY doctor. Late last week, the doctor’s office called with bad news. Something had come up and my doctor was going to be unavailable for my appointment…could I reschedule? I was leery about what that would mean. I had already suffered through a month of misery, how much longer would it take?
Well, surprise, surprise…they wanted to reschedule for Friday! Yep, a rescheduled appointment that was actually going to take place almost two weeks prior to the original appointment. How sweet is that?!?
So, on Friday I went. I explained to the nurse my symptoms, went throught the pre-appointment gobble-dee-gook, weight, blood-pressure, pulse…and then waited for the doctor. Up until the point she came in, all was textbook. And then, the door opened…
The doctor came in, telling me how much she enjoys reading my articles, how entertaining they are and so true to life. And then she told me how the OB staff on third floor cuts out my columns and puts them up for a chuckle (apparently, once you’ve had four children, the OB nurses kinda think of you as family). She asked about my son and my brother and the rest of my family and after a bit, we got around to the appointment part.
I thought to myself, “How does J.K. Rowling handle this? Diane Sawyer?” Just kidding. But yet, it was a little awkward for me. I mean, after hearing about how she likes what I write, I really didn’t want to tell her that I wasn’t feeling well. I’d hate for the next time she read my column, all she could think about was, “Oh, this is the gal who couldn’t figure out why she felt like doggie-doo.”
Anyway, I got over my irrational thoughts and got down to the reason for the visit…and after some talking, and an ultrasound, it became obvious. No, I was not hitting menopause at 34. No, I was not hitting puberty. No, I am not expecting another child. But I do have a somewhat annoying cyst that is causing all of my problems, symptoms and misery (well, except those caused by the four children, mentioned previously). In six weeks I get to go back and have a recheck…and hopefully avoid any type of surgery.
But at least this time I’ll be better prepared. I’ll have my “handler” call for the appointment, I’ll use an assumed name and I’ll wear shades with a big floppy hat. That should keep it low-key, right? 😉