An Apple a Day…

A couple of weeks ago I had my annual visit with the gynecologist, which I have every 2-5 years. I’ve learned that if I sneak by without the annual appointment, it goes unnoticed for at least another 2-4 years (which, as I get older, is my goal). Honestly I don’t have time to take myself to the doctor, as I’ve been unusually busy caring for my family and their health problems. When Charlie broke his collar bone in January and we met our exceedingly high medical insurance deductible in one, albeit exciting, visit to the ER, I had hoped (in a not-as-sick-as-it-sounds way) that we would get on a roll with the medical issues and really get our money’s worth from Horizon this year!

If only the powers that be who granted that request would also grant my wishes to win the lottery, get someone to fold the laundry, or make my drink refill by itself, my secret plans to have cosmetic surgery might finally come to fruition. But my family said “not so fast” and proceeded to take turns getting sick and injured. Charles segued his broken collar bone right into an elbow injury which put him on a first name basis with the orthopedist and everyone at the physical therapist’s office. Luckily his allergies have also hit an all-time high, and now he’s filling the time that he had spent rehabbing with senior citizens, at the allergist getting skin tests and immunizations. Bianca has developed three mysterious illnesses, that require three different specialists, who are referring her to three different subspecialists, in three different states. I need at least three drinks a day to talk her off the cliff. Not to be left out, Maverick admitted himself to the hospital with “diverticulitis” or so he says….If you ask me by the looks of his private hospital room, he just wanted an excuse to take a few days off from work. That theory, however, doesn’t hold much water when I consider that he had to lay off the booze for ten days. All I know is that when I visited him that one time for ten minutes I was so jealous I said, “What are you complaining about, this is just like being at a spa without the treatments!” and immediately started plotting how I could land myself in there for a day or two.

So when my doctor’s office called to harass me into making an appointment, I seized the opportunity. Perhaps I could join my throngs of friends who were having procedures to take care of “lady problems.” Maybe they’d uncover a polyp or a cyst! Maybe my bladder needed a lift or my labia a reduction! The possibilities were plentiful and I was confident that soon enough I would be the recipient of “room service” and a hospital bed with the automatic-lifting things and a lovely view of the train station which I could easily pretend was a view of the Gulf of Mexico or the Loire Valley or, with enough wine, Cap Ferrat. Oops, almost forgot, no wine in the hospital. Anyway, those were the thoughts that guided me to the hour that I would “take everything off” and “put on the gown with the opening in the front” and bear the humiliating examination women must endure in the name of health. If there was any chance I had a polyp I knew an ultrasound was in order, and not only an external but an internal. So I was a good patient and followed the instructions to drink 16-24 oz of water within an hour of my visit. Sure, sure we all remember that from the days of pregnancy, what fun!!

Remember how small your bladder felt when you were pregnant? How you didn’t think you could stand to hold in all that water through the ultrasound? How you couldn’t hold in your urine enough to get a full night’s sleep?? Well let me tell you something that was nothing compared to trying to hold 16-24 oz. of water in a middle-aged bladder that endured significant trauma delivering three 8+ pound babies. Halfway through my second bottle of water I knew I had to get to that appointment and QUICKLY! I showed up a half hour early and declared, “My bladder is 47 years old….If you don’t get me that scan in the next five minutes I’m going to wet myself right here in the waiting room.”

A shout out to the sonogram tech who had to finish eating her lunch while she scanned me and swear to god I really didn’t mind when that piece of ham fell out of your sandwich onto my labia. Although my dog did seem extra happy to see me when I got home. Another shout out to my gyno who I nominate for a James Bond award for his stealthiness in slipping in that RECTAL EXAM. If you thought you were so stealthy I wouldn’t notice you sliding your finger up my ass as you engaged me in a conversation requiring me to describe, in detail, my meatball recipe, you were quite wrong. And if I did shit on you on your way out, well… you deserved it.

So I left with a clean bill of health. Damn. To cheer myself up I booked a chemical facial peel at the derm’s office because if my insides were doing so great, then my outside should look great too. (Plus the rectal changed my views on anal bleaching.) I didn’t pay any attention to my aesthetician’s warning that I might not want to be seen in public for 3-5 days, basically because I’m a pretty open person. I have been known to converse with the school principal from my car with my pajamas on, bare my unwaxed legs on the tennis court and pose for family photos before getting my roots done, so going to my best friend’s 50th surprise birthday party after a chemical peel didn’t seem like a big deal.

But, and pay attention here to words I rarely say, I was wrong. Little did I realize that within 36 hours I would go from looking like me, to looking like I fell asleep in Africa, to looking like I was creating a death mask in some sort of sick, performance art exhibition. After enduring what felt like the heat of a thousand suns, I quickly started to resemble the Tanning Booth Mom from Nutley, which was definitely not the look I was going for. If polled I bet most of the party guests would say the real surprise at the party was that someone as hideous as I, got up on stage to roast the Guest of Honor and, of course, to sing with the band. Mav kept making comments like “I wish I had an ounce of your confidence” and “I can’t even look at you” and “You should have worn a veil like the woman who had her face eaten off by that chimp” but everyone else claimed that they “never would have noticed if you didn’t point it out to me.” They were either blind, drunk, or a bunch of cross-eyed liars. Or all three.

But I’m finally almost fully peeled and healed, and despite the fact that little flakes of my face are floating in my wine glass right now, I will suck it down before I run over to the hospital to visit my nephew. He has a pencil eraser stuck in his ear. If only he was on my health insurance policy.