The Lab Results Are In
As I’ve discussed here and there, I’m a bit of a hypochondriac, but most people don’t care, since I’m pretty damn entertaining while hypochondriacking all over the floor.
Over the last few months, I’ve been feeling a bit off with symptoms such as fatigue and memory lapses. Now I know what you armchair doctors are saying, “Perhaps, my friend, if you didn’t drink so much, you wouldn’t have to call hangovers ‘fatigue’ and blackouts ‘memory lapses.'” To which I scoff at your unlearned opinion.
My trusty friend, Mr. Bottle would never harm me, so don’t maligne him. If you do that again, we’ll sue for slander! Unless you write it in the comments, then we’ll sue for libel!
That’s right, bitches, Mr. Bottle is an attorney and knows the difference between slander and libel. So you’d better be quaking.
But back to my non-bottle-induced symptoms.
Like a good custodian of my meat-flesh, I made an appointment with my doctor to have said symptoms checked and get a much needed check-up. The next available appointment was two weeks away, which gave me plenty of time to research and diagnosis my ongoing disintegration.
After many careful hours of diligent websurfing, I realized that my symptoms were actually two separate maladies, and I had to sadly start reporting to my friends and family that I was the first case of “Mad Cow Leukemia disease.”
Now reporting it to friends and family was sad mainly because they all seemed so utterly entertained with my imminent demise. Some laughed. Some pointed out that it would soon be named after me, since I would be the first to contract both diseases at once. This brought some comfort to my distressed heart, as I would at least leave a legacy beyond, “Oh him? Yeah, I slept with him once, it was by far the most amazing experience I’ve ever had. I wrote poetry about it, wanna read?”
So on the appointed day, I sat down with the doctor, and properly underplayed the symptoms. This is an important part of the doctor dance, as “Oh, I’ve been extra tired lately,” will be listened to, whereas, “I have extreme fatigue, people with carts need to move me between the bed and the couch,” is dismissed. So I told him overall everything was fine, except I had this, and this, and that other thing probably wasn’t much, but I wanted to bring it up in case it was a symptom of something. I also made a point to say, “I’m not even sure if these are symptoms of anything, but it was just different than usual, so I wanted to make sure it wasn’t anything of consequence,” which directly translates to, “I did NOT look this up on the internet!”
Well, the doctor nodded several times and with an uncharacteristic seriousness (he giggles during hernia checks for bejezus sake), he told me he wanted to run several blood tests to make sure it wasn’t one of many things.
And I felt vindicated.
I was right. Something was seriously wrong. Oh those friends and family that had tittered and joked would rue the day they mocked my ailments! Perhaps a few would commit ritual suicide in despair over realizing how poorly they had treated me. I hesitated before asking the doctor, “Can Mad Cow Leukemia be exacerbated by the stress of being mocked by a group of loved ones?”
I held off on that question though, as it’s obviously a question for my loved one to ask after the doctor has broken the horrific news and I’m always one for following Miss Manners’ rule of etiquette.
So blood was taken. And more blood. And still more, to the point where they were arguing whether I should be given juice and a cookie before they took the next fifteen vials. But I waved them off, a concussion would add nicely to the story.
It took a week before I got the results back. Each day I waited, looking at my phone every fifteen minutes, willing the doctor to call with the bad news.
What if he didn’t want to give me the news over the phone? It was nearing the holidays, I would be out of town, and this was information I needed to share in person with my family. I was getting desperate and told the Boyfriend I was going to call the doctor myself.
“Just wait. He’ll call you when he has the results,” the Boyfriend said levelheadedly.
“But if I don’t find out soon, I might forget what he tells me,” I said.
“Why do you think that?”
“Uhh… I have mad cow disease? It’s a thing!”
At that point, the Boyfriend poured himself another glass of wine. Apparently he was wishing for forgetfulness as much as I was fearing it.
Then, last Friday, hours before we were to leave to spend the holiday with my family, the doctor called.
“So, we ran a lot of tests and overall, things came back positive.” He started running through the list of good results:
- thyroid – fine
- testosterone levels – beast-like
- cholesterol – awesome
- blood counts – enviable
“But we did find something,” he said, and I felt my heart leap. I suddenly knew what he was going to say. I knew it with my whole being. It was one of those moments where you can hear the future speaking to you from a distance, so when it finally morphs into the present, you aren’t surprised by the words, “it’s leprosy.”
I steeled myself for this awful news. A feeling of nausea welled up my esophagus as I envisioned my perfectly shaped nose falling off Michael Jackson style.
And then the doctor said, “You have a Vitamin D deficiency. You can pick up supplements at any health food store.”
Son of a Mother! Life is so unfair!