Used to be, it used to be that when one of these silly meme-things would ask me how many times I’d been x-rayed, I would reply, “Teeth only” and move on.
Now … well, if we say x-rays only, and leave teeth out of it, I can add my knee, twice, and my ankle, once, and my upper back, once.
If we add CT scans, EEGs, EKGs, MRIs, nuclear medicine, and Dexi-scans to the tale, that’s when I lose count. They still don’t know what the hell is wrong with my sorry arse, you see.
That said, I’ve only ever had three primary physicians, if you count my pediatrician when I was a kid. I kept going to him, even as a teenager, till he referred me to a gynecologist, and once you’ve had to embarrass your pediatrician like that, girl, it’s time to stop making him watch you developing all over the place.
After that, I went to walk-in clinics if I got sick, and I had specialists as well, but I didn’t get another primary till I was well into my twenties, and I rarely saw her, although I was constantly sick with bronchitis or something similar. She was always telling me to quit smoking. After I did quit, though, I still only went to her for checkups — anything else, I went to the walk-in.
When I moved to Vegas, I didn’t even look for a primary till one of my specialists said, “Dammit, you have too many doctors and no team leader,” and sent me to a friend of his. She’s actually pretty bombtastic. And she got That Man of Mine to change his evil fast-food ways … I didn’t think anyone could do that.
I have had a few medical fears in my life, but most of them were when I was little, and most of those involved something happening to my parents, not me.
Right now, there’s a chance something is pretty fucking badly wrong with me, but I’m not going to let myself be scared unless it actually happens.
The worst illness I have ever had was actually an offshoot of Hashimoto’s Syndrome: I was really tired all the time and I assumed, naturally, that I was just lazy, and never considered the possibility that something could actually be wrong with me.
What it was, was a pericardial effusion.
I was in the hospital, just feeling like everything hurt, and I assumed that was what they were treating. Meanwhile, That Man was wigging out, because I was, apparently, a little bit too close to dying.
It bugs me, how much I have to rely on the medical system, because I am pretty well convinced that it’s a hot mess and that we’re going to be screwed if we keep letting big business be the focal point behind what health-care changes are needed in this country.
A friend of mine, newly wed, just moved with her new husband to his homeland of Great Britain. She’s an alumna of Big C, graduated with honors, but she’s still at the “gotta check and make sure it didn’t come back” stage, and she goes to the doctor, and there’s no copay, and Every.
Only costs her £7.
As if I didn’t need another reason to move to the UK, aside from the fact that even the ugliest men have hot freaking accents.
This, incidentally, wasn’t really a meme. It was a bunch of mixed-and-matched questions the Mom answered on her blog, and I reckoned I could do worse.
drinking: ice water
listening to: All Time Low, Somewhere in Neverland
number of sticks yesterday: just one, with the pediatric needle