It’s That Time of the Year Again..

Yeah, NO.

Nope, not Thanksgiving. Or any other holiday for that matter.

It’s that reoccurring, perennial, once-a-year, ‘go or die’ doctor check up.

Annual check ups. Let’s see how awkward I can make it.

Had mine on Monday. It was such a wonderful, lovely, perfect weather kind of day. But 2:30 came rolling around toting with it a cloud of impending doom.

Seriously, I don’t know why I still hate these appointments. It takes maybe 48 seconds of poking and prodding but still, the mere thought sends a cold chill down my spine.

I started writing this when I was sitting in the waiting room:

Any doctor visit has to be, quite possibly, the greatest lie you will ever tell in your entire life. You stack lie upon lie so your doctor doesn’t think you are a horrendous human being who deserves some tormented level of punishment. I think I’ll take perdition than endure another doctor visit.

Think about it. You have to fill out a 1,285 (give or take a couple of pages) page questionnaire on your family’s history, your history, your past, etc.

Do you drink? Water. Of course. Oh, err…1-2 glasses of wine per week TOPS.

Do you smoke? Smoke what? No, of course not. [side note: I really do not smoke anything, just trying to make a point]

Have you had any surgeries? If you don’t count harvesting my ovaries* for some dollars, then no. Or do you count the time I had eye surgery to fix my cross-eyed face when I was five? No? Ok.

How many sexual partners have you had? Um, let me do the math in my head (X / 3 – 5 = Y)** Yep, sounds about right.

Do you work out? Do you count walking to the refrigerator to the cabinet then back to the fridge? Then yes. All the time.

Yeah, there are definitely a bajillion more questions that you will not answer truthfully.

Thank the man upstairs that I was mailed this questionnaire or I would’ve been sitting in the waiting room til those cows come home. But to start the appointment off on the right foot, I proceeded to arrive 30 minutes early. Only to find myself in the wrong building. So now, I’m not only sweating because I’m nervous as all get out but I’m lost as all get out. I ask some random lady person so pointed me in the general way of ‘that way’. Thanks, you were a lot of help, really. A couple of elevator rides later, I found myself in the correct doctor’s office. Sorry, Sleep Med, maybe next time.

I turn in my folder and the front desk female shows me all the areas I didn’t fill out correctly. She asks for my ID and insurance card. Dang it, knew I had forgotten something. ‘Twas the insurance card. Not to worry, we resolved that issue rather swimmingly.

Then I must sit in the waiting room silently squirming, for what seems like hours.

A nurse emerges through an intricately locked door, calls for you by your last name and you follow her like a sad puppy. First up: the scale. The scale always, always adds ten pounds. Hold up, nurse. Pretty sure my shoes weigh 4 pounds. Oh, um and this watch, too. Oh and my glasses. Those things are so heavy. Hell, just let me remove every article of clothing because we all know that shit weighs at least 8 pounds, right?

She’s making small talk. You’re awkwardly giggling along. Then it’s the blood pressure test followed by the finger prick which in my option is the worst form of skin puncturing there is. Then it’s the ‘pee-in-a-cup’ challenge. I call it a challenge because it is very difficult. To make matters worse, someone left their pee cup on the bathroom sink. HOW? How do you forget about the ONE thing you were tasked with doing, on the sink? It’s supposed to go in that silver trap door thing in the wall. Good job, Chelsea. I now know your birth date and your last name.

After all is finito, I’m escorted to another waiting hall/corridor thing where I sit by a model of a uterus. Learned what the endometrium is, so there’s that.

After another 13 minutes of tortuous waiting, I was led into the exam room in all its fluorescent glory. The nurse gave me a robe made of CLOTH not paper. I was shocked and appalled, in a good way. They had music playing. And not elevator music. Good music. I started jamming out. Singing along & dancing, shoot, anything to pass the extra 29 minutes (I timed it) of waiting bucky nakie in that room. I was starting to go stir crazy when the doc finally arrived.

I don’t know about you but I make sure my doctors are ladies. Most of my friends go to male doctors but I just can not do it. Men, I love you but scraping the endometrium is not something I want you to be doing to me.

The whole thing was over and done with before I could read one of Shakespeare’s sonnets. Quick, in and out. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. She spent more time trying to convince me to change birth controls than she did exploring. I said no, no, I’m perfectly fine with mine, I don’t need you slicing open my arm to insert some plastic GPS locator.

I redressed and beelined it for the exit.

See you 363 days from now. Have fun feeling up your next agonizing soul.

He’s the only doctor I need:
10th Doctor

* Definitely have not harvested eggs. Also, not hating if you have. You do you, ladies of the world.
** Don’t try to figure out some number that’ll work, I made that equation up.


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