Senseless Sunday Sarcasm : Annual poke and grope

The annual poke and grope (aka Yearly Physical) becomes a bit more complicated after 65.  

It’s never a good idea to have one of these if you’re seeing a new doctor.

But when you’re over 65, and you don’t know the doctor, you’re more likely to get Kavorkian by mistake.

My annual was supposed to be at 2:30. They called me that morning to ask if I could come in at 1:15.

I finished their questionnaire online, which took about 20 minutes. The computer assured me that preregistration meant a faster entry into the coveted examination closet.

“Thank God I did it that way,” I said to myself.  “Beats having to do this for an hour in the doctor’s office.”

Fortunately, when I got there for the appointment, someone had left a large print word search book on the end table. That saved my sanity.

I waited from 1:15 until 1:40 to be whisked into the interrogation room (aka the weigh, measure, and determine you’re sane room).

They kept asking me, in 100 different ways, if I was depressed. Of course I’m not depressed — I have a good job where my work is valued, I’m writing books and can afford an editor.

Life is great!

They think they’re so clever, slipping things like, “Do you feel blue sometimes,” in with a series of questions like, “Do you have kidney stones,” or “Do you have warts.” 

I had the urge to say, “I haven’t colored my body with paint lately.”

The entire time I was with the physician’s assistant I wondered what she was writing down (aka putting into the computer) about the results.

110 pounds 138/70bp, heart rate normal, etc. There was a sign that said EVERYONE MUST HAVE THEIR HEIGHT MEASURED EACH VISIT. This was in letters so large I could see them from 5 feet away. I read the sign and the physician’s assistant ignored it, asking what my height was instead.

I’m beginning to wonder if it’s their underhanded way of testing your vision; 20/250 and you pass with flying colors.

Okay…so I digress.  Back to the height issue.  When you get older and your friends are now 2 inches shorter, you’re proud of retaining your full height.

Look…you have to be proud of SOMETHING.

If it’s not this: 

It’s this:

Do you wonder why one shows off when one is their same height after 6 decades under their belt, and still has very little fat?

Then came the Alzheimer’s test, which I aced except for a list of “5 items” I was told to keep locked somewhere in my brain.   I could only remember 4 after 15 minutes; pie, pencil, apple and car. I forgot house. I knew the day of the week, the year, and the PA seemed astounded when she read a story and asked me to answer questions about it.  

It start out, “Jack and Jill…” and the first question they ask is the woman’s name.  I was astounded she didn’t try to give me a lollipop afterward.

It was like being in elementary school again.

She asked, “Are you at risk for falls.”

I replied, “I have 6 dogs and do yoga. I know how to fall.”

I mean…Really?  If I were at risk for falling instead of doing it on a regular basis with finesse, wouldn’t I break something else between 1971 and now?

And no, I didn’t use a cheat sheet to pass their D%&$*d test.  I don’t have enough room on my arm to write down the answers.

Then came the pee test, for that one you have to be careful about what you ingest.  

From the time I entered to the time I had a pee test, 1 hour and 30 minutes had elapsed.

You know what’s coming next.  Right?

I was led to a room to see the doctor and heard the words I dreaded, “The doctor will be with you shortly.”

7 completed word search puzzles later, my doctor walked through the door.

I just love my doctor. It’s not her fault that she was booked and didn’t get to see me until 3:30pm. She always smiles when we meet and seems to enjoy the fact that I’m not moaning and complaining about something or other.

She ordered a bone density scan and a mammogram, not because I needed one, but the insurance company says it’s time.

I’m so glad I’m not a man and have to go through this

Because you know that — in the end — it’s not the prostate exam, it’s the insurance company’s blessing.

My doctor said the last thing was a fasting blood test. I asked her how long it had to be from the time I ate breakfast to the time it was considered fasting, because I’d skipped lunch entirely.

“When did you have breakfast?”

“7:30am.” 

“That’s over 8 hours,” she said, “You can do the blood test now.”

That means I don’t have to return for the blood test. WooHoo!

Bottom line: I’m in good shape, unless the blood work, bone density scan and mammogram show otherwise.

I’ll probably have to do head stands to get the results for those tests…

…if I can still get it up.

 

©Joelle LeGendre