Happy Monday!  Today I had the opportunity to go to the doctor.  The doctor.  I have heard many names for him: the Fun Doctor, the Woman Doctor, the Very Personal Doctor, That Doctor, the Doctor Who Oughta Buy Me Dinner.  I think you get the idea.  He is the only doctor I see on an annual basis because he controls the magic pills that make my life a lot easier. 

I have to be a whole lot of sick before I go see my regular doctor because he knows I’m due for another colonoscopy.  Darn computers!  They make everyone so very, very efficient.  Don’t get me wrong, I realize he is only trying to help.  Thanks to my sister’s pre-cancer scare a few years ago, my siblings and I got to experience the joy of down under scope way before the age of 50.  Technically, it only starts down under then heads due north but that really isn’t the point.  The point is the doctor and his nurses now have me on their radar.  Last year, I went in for a sprained wrist and received a lecture about scheduling my next colonoscopy.   

It is on my list of to-do’s, it really is, I just have to forget a little bit more about the first go around before I can schedule the second.  I still remember the video I had to watch describing the procedure and I about fainted when it described everything that was going on the little day trip.  A camera.  A probe.  And my least favorite, the clippers.  I thought of the movie “Inner Space” and shuddered.  I didn’t want a little adventurer going exploring in my down under. 

But today I went to see the Fun doctor.  He doesn’t have me on his colonoscopy radar so I don’t have to make any excuses.   I wanted to schedule the appointment for 4:30 but was informed the doctor didn’t see patients that late.  So, I took an hour off of work for an appointment at 3:30 of which I had to be there by 3:15.  I was called back at 4:00. 

The nurse asked questions to fill in my chart since my last visit a year ago.  I told her I got sick a few months ago hoping to get an official diagnosis.  She asked how sick I had become and I refrained from telling her how I thought I was going to die because she might think me a bit melodramatic.  Instead, I said, “It hurt real bad.”  Maybe I should have gone with the drama because the doctor told me later that since it doesn’t hurt anymore, I’m probably okay.  It’s not that I’m a hypochondriac I just want an official diagnosis to explain why I’m so tired.  And lazy.  And body parts are starting to hurt that didn’t used to hurt.  But the doctor keeps giving me a clean bill of health.   Which is good but that means everything is falling apart because I’m getting old.  There’s no pill for that.  And very little sympathy.

The doctor is very considerate and always asks if I’m okay.  This is when I take a good look at myself and the predicament I’m in and answer, “Oh yeah.”   At least this year he was by himself.  For a couple of visits he was training new doctors.  I’m all for letting the new guys gain some experience because that’s how they get to be good doctors.  However, I think I’ve done my part.  Someone else can be their guinea pig.

The whole visit lasted 70 minutes.  During which time I saw the doctor for about seven minutes.  But I’m done for another year and that is priceless.