My memory is terrible. Sometimes I have to write a note to remind myself to write a note reminding me of all of the things I need to discuss with my psychiatrist.
99% of the time I leave the note at home or in a different purse which means that we end up wasting our appointment time Googling small towns in the Middle East and finding out that you quite possibly have the worst French accent ever.
You know, important things.
After the appointment, I’ll find myself in the medical building elevators wondering what the fuck just happened? And why didn’t I remember to ask him about my hair that’s falling out.
Note or not, it doesn’t really matter. I don’t have to explain much to him. He can gauge how I’m feeling when I reference different words for bowel movements.
Shit. Crap. Poop. Bum Nuggets.
And he just knows.
I get really frustrated when I encounter other doctors who don’t get my single word description of the chaos in my head and the pain in my back.
Yesterday is a fine example of that.
I was sitting on the exam table in my family doctor’s office. The only thing separating my dignity from her was a thin plastic sheet that I had already shredded in 17 places trying to figure out how to cover my no no bits.
As her fingers moonwalked around my nipples, she asked me how I was.
I said, “Crap.”
She stopped and gave me this look which made me feel like I needed to define what crap was.
Where do I start?
My back hurts so I can’t get into a comfortable position to sleep which means I’m not really sleeping and that is making my depression worse and because my depression is getting worse, I feel like doing absolutely nothing but crying and because I want to cry, nothing is getting done around my house and that doesn’t matter because my back is so sore that I can’t do it anyways.
And my hair is falling out in clumps.
Instead I said, “You know. Same old. Same old.”
She nodded and continued onto my left breast.
I never know where to look when she checks my fun bags. Most of the time I check out the poster on diverticulitis. It’s interesting. For a brief moment I glanced at her and observed her facial features. I suddenly remembered my appointment with my psychiatrist.
“She’s not French.”
Over ten years with her and she is not French.
This whole time I’ve been using a French accent to imitate her and she isn’t French.
I started to laugh.
“Oh my hands are cold. I’m so sorry,” she said in her non-French accent as she rubbed her hands that have never made a French croissant.
“Ugh. It’s ok,” I responded clearing my throat to stop the giggling. Only I couldn’t stop giggling. It soon became one of those funeral laughs. No matter how much you try to stop you just can’t.
It was the most uncomfortable yet hilarious pap smear I have ever had.
A few minutes later, she snapped off her gloves and told me that everything looked good under the hood.
“I am recommending that all of my female patients get this vaccine. It’s for HPV,” she said.
“For genital warts?” I quickly responded.
“Um, it’s more than just-”
“I know. I’m a nurse. I was just ummm…kidding.”
“I’ll see you in week Kimberly.”
As soon as she walked out, I busted out of those plastic sheets like the hulk. I got out of there as fast as I could.
When I got to my car, I realized that I forgot to ask all the questions I had wrote on the little piece of paper that was sitting in the cup holder.
On the top, with the letters written over and over:
Things I also forgot that day:
- refilling my birth control
- my best friend’s baby’s first birthday
- the speed limit in our city as I drove as fast as I could to the pharmacy to refill birth control
- and putting my bra back on
- you’re welcome pharmacist
Is it Friday yet?