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.