doctors

Dear Health Professionals,

During a call to someone about the results of their various blood tests, after you have informed them that their ferritin is low and they need to go for more tests, it is perhaps slightly unwise to start a sentence with "Oh, and your syphilis and HIV tests came back and ".

It might be rather less palpitation-inducing to instead begin by saying "Oh, also, we received negative results from your..."

Thank you for your time. As you were.

My doctor, who is not Renée Zellweger, but could certainly play her on TV, is much nicer than my old doctor, the Goob. The Goob sucked.

I liked the Goob less than the doctor who applied liquid nitrogen to my cervix, not once, which was required, but twice, because he missed a bit of the infection the first time.

You just think about those two things together for a few moments: cervix, liquid nitrogen, cervix, liquid nitrogen.

Yeah, like a motherfucker. But thank you for asking.

But he was a nice man, and I can see how it might be easy to miss a spot when you're burning someone's cervix. It's a pretty cramped space, and better to miss a spot than throwing that shit around in there.

So while the Goob never burned my cervix twice, she was just not nice and her bedside manner made her an incompetent doctor. She put the fear of physicals into me, I'll tell you that. So I've left this one a little long - almost a year and a half after my last physical, just over a year since my last pap. I've never gone for longer than a year between physicals. My mother pounded into my head that that's what you do as soon as you become sexually active.

Though for years I had no idea why, just that you had to. I never even thought about why, it was just like breathing, or like using my right foot to take the first step. What one does.

But it's only been a year since my last pap, and considering that it was fine, but the one before that was not fine, really, it's a bit remiss.

The other thing about the Goob, and about all the doctors I've had before her in all my time of having paps and bimanual exams, the Goob was not attractive. I mean, she wasn't unattractive. She was a nice lookin' lady, to someone, I'm sure.

My doctor now is nice and I like her. She's sympathetic, she seems to know what she's talking about and she has diagnosed me properly and reasonably a few times now. She's also attractive. Pseudo-movie star attractive. Not that I'm attracted to her, since pseudo-movie stars are not my type, insofar as I have a type where the ladies are concerned. But when she said "This'll be a little cold." and pushed her fingers up my cunt, well. I couldn't look at her, and it was the closest to feeling fucked I've ever had on the Table.

I'm not sure she's entirely comfortable with other women's bodies. Or: maybe she's not comfortable with her own body either? maybe she stares at the ceiling when she gives herself a breast exam? maybe she pays more attention to what she's feeling if she stares fixedly at the wall? I don't know.

What I do know, however, is that my weight is up by 10 lbs. And that's good, though of course, I'm having ridiculous internal dialogues about it. My resting heart rate is also up, to 60 bpm. Which is also good, but not as good as the 44 I registered back in the fall. Of course, this time I had just popped off the exam table rather than blearily lifting a wrist after several hours of lying completely still in a giant whirring machine.

There's resting, and there's resting.

I been saved from the Goob.

A couple months ago, knowing how much I hated my own doctor, Jennifer emailed me to say she'd gotten in at the clinic a half-block up the street from us. In my quest to have all the same things as Jennifer (clothing, landlord, hairdresser, etc.), I called the clinic and got a meet and greet appointment with the new resident.

I went at the appointed time and was met and greeted by a doctor several years younger than me who was very glam, clicking around in her kitten heels looking like nothing so much as the star of Medically Blond. But she was very personable and very nice. She asked me how I was.

She was competent too, taking a reasonably thorough history. Though as soon as she found out I had a boyfriend, she stopped asking me about my sexual history. Unsurprising, but still a little sad.* We got through all her questions and she asked me if I had any other concerns.

I pointed at my lip, scabby from the latest round of herpes. "I'm going to book a follow up about the cold sores."
"Well, how often do you get them?"

Before going into the appointment, I'd spent some time totting up the outbreaks. A lot, was the answer to her question. I launched into my tabulations. In great detail. I was bound and determined to convince her that I *needed* valtrex. Her eyebrows went higher and higher the longer I went on.

"You know, if you get more than two or three outbreaks a year, you could reasonably take valtrex prophylactically."

Prophylactic valtrex had been a no-go with the Goob. Hell, I'd had to push her to even get a prescription to take them intermittently. They make you too tired, she said. Just take them when you feel the tingling, she said. Okay, I said. She was the one with the pen and the script pad, after all, and the Goob does not brook dissention.

And here my new doctor was, acting like it was normal, nay, even appropriate, for me to take a pill to prevent the at least monthly outbreaks of itchy ouchy blisters on one of the two parts of my body I have consistently liked my entire life. She hauled out the drug compendium, checked the dosage, and typed me up a prescription.

I started taking the little blue pills about two weeks ago. They have changed my life. That sounds like hyperbole, I know, but it is not. Because I don't remember a time when I didn't get cold sores, the anxiety that went along with them seemed normal.

Is that a tingle? I think that's a tingle. Is that a red spot? Maybe, but then I just ate that spicy food and had a hot drink, so maybe it's just the scars getting inflamed, or maybe. Hmm. I dunno. But. Damn. Don't kiss me. And I can't put my lips on you. Anywhere. Just in case. But, okay, my lip isn't crawling any more. Maybe it was my imagination. Shit, where's my lip balm. I need lip balm. I never leave the house without lip balm. Where is it, it must be. Oh. Thank god. My lips are getting dry and it's a little windy outside. And the sun is kind of bright. And it's cold. Cold is bad. Sun is bad. Hot is bad. Dry is bad. Oh dear oh dear.

It's made me wonder about how much of my personality has been shaped by the fear of cold sores. If I had been on this stuff from my teens, would I be as prone to worry about maybes and might bes?

Oh, who am I kidding. Of course I would be.

Still, it feels like I've relaxed a fuck of a lot since starting the valtrex and I intend to keep taking it until I die. And you know, even there's a dire consequence for taking these pills for years at a time, at least those years will have been full of worry-free kissing and scar-free lips.

*I've only ever had one doctor not make assumptions about my sexuality. My first doctor in Halifax, chosen because her clinic was the closest to my house, asked if I had sex with men, women, or both. I nearly threw my arms around her and shouted "YES! I'M BISEXUAL! YOU KNOW I EXIST!" No GP before that or since then has offered me the both option. I keep holding out hope, though.

Our dance party was a smash success last night. We made enough to cover more than one of the bursaries, and everyone seemed to have a great time. Technically, almost everything went smoothly, though there was some feedback during the beginning of Les Allumettes that I felt uselessly awful about. It's actually a really good room to have bands in.

The mix of people was great, there were a variety of ages and while it was a queer space, there were a lot of people there who wouldn't normally show up at queer events. I liked it.

The Great Dater was there as well, looking handsome as ever. We had a nice chat and made plans to have lunch on Monday. He's a very lovely man. And so not into me. I was wearing nothing but tattoos under a see through shirt and I don't think he noticed. Now that we're not dating, it's actually pretty endearing.

Today, I have homework to do. Grocery shopping to do. I've applied to write custom erotica for a website and have a story due on tuesday that I haven't started writing yet. So I have writing to do. I'm meeting with Sam of the pretty green eyes to discuss details of a party we're throwing on the 9th. So I have planning to do. I'm gonna go for a run. So I have exercising to do.

****

I get a call from my doctor's office, and since it's been a few weeks since the last pap, I figure it's because the results are in. I call back and the secretary - the Mini-Goob - tells me that the blood test results are back from my annual and that my iron is low and that I should take this supplement, blah blah blah.

I'm a little surprised. Not so much that my iron is low, because it's been low for a couple years.* But that she's about to end our conversation without mentioning the test results for the pap. I am much more concerned about my cervix than my iron stores.

Mini-Goob is ready to end the conversation when I interrupt her goodbye to say "I was in for a test regarding atypical cells two weeks ago and I was wondering if the results were back?" She pauses. I can hear the pages flipping.

"Oh yes. [The Goob] has called to make an appointment with a specialist for you. She'll call you when there's an appointment." Shaken, I revert to politeness and thank her before getting off the phone.

Off the phone, I fucking pissed. The cells came back atypical again, and my doctor didn't fucking call me? Just got me on the waiting list with a specialist.

I ranted to my friends for a day or two, and then decided that since 2007 is the Year I Take Charge of Shit, I will call The Goob and demand more information.

So I called when I knew the office would be closed and left a sternly worded message.

The Mini-Goob called me back the next day. To let me know it was all a misunderstanding and that the cells had come back normal and would I like to make an appointment for six months from now to re-test.

Why, yes I would. With a different fucking doctor.

*To cut this off at the pass, I'm not a vegetarian.