This post is part of my 2022 Word Project. You can read what that’s about here.
Monday, November 27, 2023
7:33pm
I got an email this morning. It was one of the nine billion that accumulated over the past week when I was minimally online and didn’t pay much attention to things like emails. It was from my doctor, asking me to confirm my appointment for Wednesday.
My… what?
I didn’t make a doctor’s appointment. Maybe the software had glitched? I logged into my account and then I remembered… I made the appointment last year, after my last physical. It’s what they do. Ask you if you want to plan ahead, and at that point it was so far ahead that it made no difference to me whether I made an appointment or not. I might have been pretending to look into a crystal ball for all it mattered.
Fast forward and now I am supposed to be going for my annual exam. In two days. I have one word for that:
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
At any rate, there is a zero percent chance of me going to the doctor in two days and getting poked and prodded so I submitted a cancellation. When you cancel, they ask for a reason.
I thought about it for a minute. I debated what to say.
Because what I really wanted to say was…
I’m not going because the first thing you’re going to do is make me get on the scale. And then I will have to look at that number and neither of us will speak of it but I’ll know it’s there. Because three days after Thanksgiving is not the day I want to get on the scale and besides, even if it was three months after Thanksgiving, you still wouldn’t be able to tell me how to eat a slice of bread without plumping up like a potato dumpling.
Is anything about this exam going to tell me how to fix my miserable metabolism? Is it going to cure me of being fat and free me up to eat gingerbread cookies instead of a single boiled egg? No?
Then I’m not going.
I wanted to say…
I’m not going because I know how this works. You look in my ears. You look in my eyeballs. You stick your flashlight up my nose.
Is that going to stop my ears from ringing like a dying cricket? Is it going to improve the fact that I can’t see across a distance with my glasses off, or anything in front of my nose with them on? Is it going to get rid of that floating thing in my right eye that I keep thinking is a gnat and occasionally swat at the air to remove like a Tourette’s patient? No?
Then I’m not going.
I wanted to say…
I’m not going because I already know you’re going to whack my knee with a dull hammer.
Is that going to change the fact that my hip cracks like a wishbone when I walk? Is it going to tell me how to prevent my leg from seizing up like overheated chocolate every time I get into certain yoga poses? Will it make it easier for me to get out of bed in the morning without oiling up like a Tin Woman who’s been out in the field for too long? Will I be able to avoid ending up in traction the next time I bend over to take the laundry out of the dryer, or turn to put the sheets on the bed, or sneeze? No?
Then I’m not going.
I wanted to say…
I’m not going because you’ll stick me with a pin, take my blood, and then call me in three days to tell me I’m deficient in Vitamin D. But I’m already taking mega doses of Vitamin D every day so haha, I win! And even if I wasn’t, are we going to fix the fact that I’m over 50 and no longer retain vitamins and minerals like I should? No?
Then I’m not going.
I wanted to say…
I’m not going because you’re going to ask me if there’s anything going on that I want to talk about, and I’ll say yeah, I can’t do pushups anymore, not that I could ever really do pushups, but now I can’t put any weight on my wrists without pain shooting up my arms. And I’ll say yeah, I can’t sleep on my right side because it feels like someone is drilling a hole through my hip if I do. And I’ll say yeah, I keep walking into rooms and forgetting why I went in there, and I know exactly what we ate for Thanksgiving dinner when I was ten, but completely forgot I put asparagus in the oven tonight. And I’ll say yeah, I wake up every hour and a half at night to pee. And I’ll say yeah, I can’t thread a needle to save my life anymore and my nice shirt is missing a button.
Can you do anything about that? No?
Then I’m not going.
I wanted to say…
I’m not going because you aren’t going to tell me anything I can’t improve with a hundred dollar bottle of bourbon if I hadn’t already paid it to you, so let’s skip the physical this year and go for the real cure. Yes? Great.
Instead, I said I was out of town. There wasn’t enough space in the box anyway, and I don’t think anyone wanted the truth. But I have an extra hundred bucks and six leftover gingerbread cookies, so as far as I can tell, I’m in perfect health.
Photo: cured by wine. Until someone can put it in a pill, I’m good.