A Flick of the Pen

There are two different types of drivers in the world: those who speed, God bless ’em, and those who drive like they’re on their way to the proctologist. Like they really don’t want to get where they’re going.

Not me though. I love going to the proctologist! Any specialist will do: dentist, dermatologist, gynecologist. For the duration of that 15-minute appointment the doctor is obligated — under oath — to care about me and my well-being. The fact that this is a paid transaction makes it no less special.

Sign me up for a colonoscopy. Get on up in there, Doc! As long as their attention is on me, and only me, I love it. Can’t get enough of that sweet, sweet attention. Even if the spotlight is pointed at my rear end, at least I’m in the spotlight. No matter how painful or inconvenient a procedure may be, I am speeding to that appointment. Because I can’t wait to get me some of that good one-on-one attention.

The pandemic was really hard for me.

What do you mean, I can’t leave the house?! I’ll get COVID?! Oh, COVID won’t do at all. Then you have to quarantine, in your bedroom, alone. I can’t be socially isolated…from doctors.

I had a miscarriage three weeks into an unplanned pregnancy and couldn’t go to the doctor. It was in the spring of 2020, and unless you’d been shot, nobody was going to the emergency room. I had a perfectly valid reason to see a doctor, and I missed out on the opportunity.

I underwent a hysterectomy last year. Best six weeks of my life! I was in the surgery center for most of the day, then home on short term disability. I was constantly receiving flowers and family members were waiting on me hand and foot. Then, I got to go back for an in-person checkup, plus a telehealth checkup after that. Best six weeks of my life. I highly recommend it!

Though, I don’t recommend what preceded it. I had a condition known as “pelvic organ prolapse” where my reproductive organs were falling out of the birth canal. It was like a Tetris game gone wrong. All the blocks had been put in the wrong places, and with nowhere else to stack anything, it was Game Over!

That’s what you get after pushing out a 9-lb baby that has nooo interest in being born. My daughter ripped the ceiling down with her, left claw marks along the sides of my uterus. She was like a cat when you bring it to the clinic in a carrier. It’s all claws and big black eyes in there.

When you’re preparing to give birth, people take joy in saying: “Ooh, you’re gonna poop on the table!” Yeah? And guess what — somebody is gonna get paid to wipe my ass! And not grimace or complain while doing it! That’s some top-notch service right there.

I’ve heard many people complain that they don’t like “the smell” of a hospital. That’s the smell of success, man! If I’m in the hospital, that means I’ve hit the big time. There will be teams of doctors and nurses attending to me. (I have to be conscious though — that’s the only way I can enjoy it.)

But eventually, you run out of reasons to see the doctor. It’s such a shame.

I’m listed as an organ donor on my driver’s license. I’d like to donate a kidney now, just for the weight loss. Sadly, when they harvest my usable parts I won’t be alive to enjoy the attention.

People take joy in saying, “Ooh, you’re gonna soil yourself when you die!” Yes. But unfortunately, I won’t be there to enjoy it.

And my funeral — oh, I’m so disappointed I won’t be there to enjoy my funeral. Death won’t do at all. Then you’re six feet underground, alone, socially isolated for all eternity.

For now, I’ll just keep avoiding apples, because I don’t want to keep the doctor away.