I'm Fine!

Note to self: Don't be honest at the doctor's office.

This morning I had my initial appointment with the Santa Maria VA clinic. When I changed my address with the VA they assigned me to a new local office and set up an appointment. Since there's nothing wrong with me (I know, that's debatable), I figured it'd be a "why don't we mangle your arm and take some blood, just for the heck of it?" kind of meeting. At the Oxnard clinic they also liked to do pap smears at the drop of a hat, but I was prepared to say I'd had sex within the previous 48 hours to get out of that, if necessary. After all, I hadn't even laid eyes on these health care professionals yet.

As usual, the people who greeted me at the check-in desk were very friendly. They have cushy government jobs so of course they're happy. Then I was taken into an exam room to talk with the LVN and get my temperature, bp, etc. I'll call her Molly. Molly seemed very sweet and nice, with a sense of humor. Clearly I have no ability to read people.

She complimented me on my excellent blood pressure, then complimented me on not having a fever. Yes, because I work on that every day. Huh? She inquired as to why I hadn't had a colonoscopy done, since one had been scheduled for me some time back. I said, "First they want you to drive to LA to be taught how to do the prep. I already know how to swallow. Then they want someone to drive you to LA for the test. I don't know anyone who can take an entire day to do that for me. Now that I live up here, this is even less likely to happen." She nodded knowingly and said, "Yes, I've heard that they're thinking of allowing private waivers for that as they're so backed up in LA. Oh dear, I just said 'backed up.'" She tried several other ways to phrase it, for some unknown reason, before giving up in a fit of giggling. Molly is nowhere near 50 and has never had a doctor suggest this procedure for her, so from her perspective it's all a hoot, I'm sure.

After she got control of herself she asked, reading from a script on her computer, "During the past two weeks have you felt down or blue or experienced any sadness?" I said yes. She looked at me. I said, "It's the holidays," in a tone that clearly meant, "Duh!" Reading again she asked, "Have you found that you've lost interest in activities that usually bring you pleasure?" I believe I said I hadn't been engaging in those activities much. And that was it. We moved on to something forgettable, then I returned to the waiting room.

My nurse practitioner came to get me minutes later, and stood in the doorway shaking her head. I didn't know what I'd done, but she quickly explained that the problem was my gender. This woman, whom I'll call Penny, said that she'd see me today but not to get used to her as she didn't do "women's health." It was one of those rare occasions when I had no idea what to say. She ushered me into another exam room and explained that they didn't have many women patients there, but had decided to give all the ones they did have to one of two NP's who were versed in women's health. Penny wasn't one of them. So she would order some lab work (giving me a gold star for having fasted), and we'd just have a chat and a cursory exam and I could come back again to meet my real primary care person. I relaxed. Big mistake.

She looked at her computer screen, then at me, and said, "You're flagged as being suicidal."

I said something like, "Wha?"

She said they have a great psychiatrist there.

I said something like, "Wha?"

She said, "You told Molly you were depressed."

I said, "It's Christmas, for the love of God, of course I'm depressed -- isn't everyone?"

Penny laughed out loud at that point and said no, not really.

I said that my mom died two years ago, one of my dearest friends died last year, and my father died in July, which has forced me to deal with an evil spawn of a relative who's part vulture and part vampire (not the attractive kind), and I'm not married, and I've had a lot of time to think about where I went wrong in that regard, and I've done my best and put up a tree and baked goodies and invited people over, but excuse the hell out of me it's just not the best couple of weeks I've ever had.

She asked if I had a plan for my suicide.

I said, "NO! But I'm forming one in regard to Molly!"

Penny laughed again and said, "I have to ask. You're the one who said you were depressed. And we don't do much here. We have a cheesy physical therapy department, the lab, and the psychiatrist. For everything else you go to LA. If you change your mind you can see him anytime."

And I did kind of want to see him, just to possibly get some anti-anxiety drugs, after all that.

She told me to forget about the colonoscopy, since they were so backed up (no giggles) in LA that it'd never happen anyway. Wished me good luck finding a private doctor to look at my thyroid (I've been given a waiver to do that), since none will take what the VA pays. And asked me if I have regular pap smears. I told her that the woman in Oxnard is incompetent when it comes to finding my cervix and my results are always inconclusive after she has to take three or four stabs at it. Penny said, "Aren't you glad I'm not going to suggest it? I have no idea how to do one." Then she asked me to sit on the examining table.

I did, and she looked in my ears. She said, "Looks like your hearing is fine." I hope that was a joke. She made me say "ahhh," and said my tongue looked good. No, I am not making this up. Thankfully she said nothing after looking up my nose. Then she listened to my heart. She informed me that it wasn't beating too fast or too slow, but just right. Silently I called myself baby bear and nicknamed Penny Goldilocks. She had short hair that was mostly blonde, with odd bits of gray and brown throughout, rather randomly. As she talked she'd run her fingers through it and it would stand straight up -- and stay that way for a while. It was hard not to stare.

She wanted to feel my thyroid (everyone does), and commented on how it wasn't noticeable that it was enlarged on one side (all doctors say that, too). She said, "You said you're not taking any medication, only vitamins."

I said, "Yup. I told them I wouldn't take anything for this."

She chuckled and said, "Oh, I bet that went over well."

I told her about the back and forth with the LA doc, wherein she told me I had hyPERthyroidism and I said I did NOT, and she wanted me to take meds and I said they'd do more harm than good, and she said I could suffer bone loss and I said no freakin' way and she ordered a bone scan and I passed it like a 20 year old. This tickled Penny/Goldilocks immensely.

She said, "So you don't want anything for your cholesterol either?"

I said, "I'd like to stop wanting ice cream and cheese, and to exercise more. But I would not like any statins."

"Cardiologists love to prescribe them," Penny said. "That should tell us something."

She finally asked if I had any concerns or questions. I said I did, that I wanted some more information about menopause, and all the things I can do to make it easier.

This woman, this sixty-something if she's a day woman, said, "You'll have to wait till you see the women's health specialist. I don't know anything about that." Really? Nothing? Then she told me that she takes hormone replacements and doesn't really care if it's bad for her, since she wasn't happy with how she felt before taking them. Feeling good is what it's all about, right?

Then she sent me to the lab, where historically I have come out not feeling good at all.

First the blood-letter looked at the computer (a theme) and it directed her to lay several vials on the counter. Apparently there was an order in the system for the LA endocrinologist, and if it's in the computer it must be obeyed. I looked at the vials and said, "I haven't eaten in 13 hours. Am I going to be able to walk out of here when you're done?" She smiled.

I told her (let's call her Angel) that I have shy and retiring veins and that my left arm, on the top, not the crook of my elbow, is the best spot. She, of course, wrapped the elastic band around my right bicep and poked at that arm. I was torn between, "Your other left," or something more cutting, but I was at her mercy so I said nothing. I was prepared to physically grab her wrist and stop her if she proceeded to poke that right arm, though. I'm done with being bruised because of some point of pride on the blood-letter's part.

Angel moved the elastic to my left bicep and poked and stroked that arm, moving to the top only after the crook offered her nothing. Finally she said, "Ah. It's small, and it needs coaxing." Then she went to the cabinet and brought back a heat pack, which she pressed to my arm.

I said, "Well, this is a new low. I've never had to be heated first."

Angel smiled and said it would encourage my vein. Yes, sure, I can see that logic. Warming up is always a good idea. I felt even better when I saw her take the juvenile needle out to use on me. She removed the heat, swabbed me with alcohol, and for the first time in my life I decided to watch the needle go in. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's my new desire to be fearless in all areas of my life. Maybe I sensed it wouldn't hurt too bad this time. Maybe I thought passing out would make a good story.

She slipped the tiny needle into my skin and I wouldn't have known she did it if I hadn't seen it. I didn't feel it. Blood immediately filled the plastic tubing and she attached the first of many vials. Stupidly, I said, "That just worked on the first try." Angel smiled and said yes, it did. I can't remember the last time it worked so well.

I watched as each and every vial was filled and nothing bad happened to me. I didn't pass out, or feel queasy, and as it turned out she didn't take enough to make me lightheaded. What's next, public speaking?

One thing I won't be doing is telling the truth when asked, by a health care person, how I'm feeling. Just fine, thank you, and yourself? That's my plan.

 

Speaking One's Mind, Truly

My father held many jobs before I was born and when I was a young'un. But for the majority of the time I remember, he was his own boss. He became a real estate salesman, then very quickly thereafter a broker, and opened a business. He had a partner for a while, "Uncle" Harry, but eventually they parted ways. My father was not the kind of person who could get along well with others unless they were, as he saw it, subordinate to him.

For the most part I abhorred his way of doing business, but there was one thing I understood and agreed with: You cannot strenuously voice your opinion or take sides if you want to sell your services to the greatest number of clients. This was long before our country became as split down the middle as it is now, but it's always made sense. If my father put a sign up proclaiming he was voting for a Democratic candidate (and he was quite the Democrat before he got old and switched sides), he knew he'd be annoying his potential Republican clients, who could easily find another Realtor or, later, real estate appraiser. He actually gave money to both parties when he contributed, just to be fair.

Things certainly haven't changed in this basic regard. Sadly, I heard Richard Chamberlain quoted as giving advice to young, gay actors to stay in the closet. He said that no matter how far it looked like we'd come, the bigotry was still prevalent and the jobs would be fewer if they didn't pretend to be someone they're not. Since California, of all states, couldn't pass a law giving equal marriage rights to gay people, he's probably right. And if you want work, you do what you have to do to get it. It will vary depending on the work, but when selling yourself, with a service or a talent, potential buyers have to like you and see themselves in you. Or at least not see what's anathema to them in you.

I base my opinions and reactions on what people put forth publicly. After attending several writing workshops and conferences, I've seen plenty of the agents, editors, and authors on Facebook. I can find them charming and reasonable in person, then completely change my mind once I read their postings. An independent editor who doesn't seem to understand the difference between "its" and "it's" as they share their status? Once is a typo, more than twice confirms their ignorance. Or one who thinks it's a good idea to lambast those who disagree with a political idea s/he holds dear? Since we seem to be so evenly split in America, half of their potential clients just felt a slap in the face and decided to use someone else to clean up their manuscript.

Equally confusing, to my way of thinking, is why someone who has written a book, and wants to sell it to as many readers as possible, would then alienate a goodly number of them with bad "jokes." I know someone who does this. He makes what he must think are highly amusing remarks about how cats are good for tossing around and eating. Yes, eating. He thinks this is funny. He's an otherwise smart and resourceful man, with a high IQ. He'd like to be published and to entertain and emotionally move his readers. Yet he can't see, or won't see (because it'd mean being a bit more self-aware and using the discipline required to edit himself) that his public persona is the opposite of amusing. It's offensive.

Those who know and love (or even just like) us will get our jokes and/or put up with the bad ones because we have warm feelings toward each other. I have actually smiled at some of this man's cat jokes, even though doing so will surely go on my permanent record and only encouraged him when that was the last thing he needed. But I know he would never actually, literally, hurt an animal or eat a domestic cat (big cats, like any game, are another matter). I can smile, and so can his family and good friends, because we know him well enough to know that.

People, and potential readers of any book or books he may have published, don't know that. At best they will think cat jokes are hilarious, either because they don't particularly like cats, or because they have one and their cat doesn't like them. But the worst case scenario (in a marketing sense), is that they will think, "Wow, this guy is a loser. What sort of person says something like that? That's sick." And they won't buy his books. All because he couldn't control himself and what he put out there in the public forum.

I have tried, in a gentle way, to make this point to him. He didn't hear me. He'd probably also think I was being ridiculous if I said that agents and editors might, just might, look at a writer's Facebook page and/or website or blog when considering buying their manuscript. Employers do it all the time, and a public face is even more important to scrutinize when it can influence sales than when it can "merely" provide insight into a potential hire.

Or possibly he did hear me, and he continues to post obnoxious comments because then he can blame a lack of success on how misunderstood he is, how people are too sensitive and politically correct these days, rather than strictly on his mastery of craft. It's hard to say. I often look deeper than the bottom of the well.

I think it's also very hard to see our own faults. A friend kindly pointing something out doesn't always get through. It might take a Gibbs-like smack upside the head accompanying the words to drive home that something isn't wise. I wish I could get him to listen. So far, telling him that talent alone isn't enough hasn't made an impact.

Of course I also wonder what it is that I do. How am I shooting myself in the foot? I fear that my friends who can see objectively what I need to do or stop doing won't speak up, as I'm lacking in grace when confronted with uncomfortable truths. I will come around eventually, but it's a bit like waking me up by shaking my shoulder -- you will get a punch in the face for your efforts.

I know that I value honesty and frankness. I also believe in keeping quite a bit to myself, where Facebook or my blog are concerned. So, since I've put so much out there already, you can just imagine what I'm holding back. :-)

I think it's too easy to share, and we've become too accustomed to doing so casually. I wish self-editing would catch on as the next big thing. And, for Christmas, I'd like this writer I've spoken of to be given the gift of having all his cat jokes magically erased from cyberspace and memory. Hey, anything is possible at Christmas.