Not for the squeemish

Thanks to anonymous b... for the kind words that arrived at the perfect time. Very sweet.

And Dad, I know you read this occasionally, but you should definitely skip this entry. You know how squeemish you are. You really don't want to go any further.

It's almost four in the morning on Saturday, and the puppy has woken me from strange dreams to noises of peristalsis. She had the sense to jump off the bed and make it halfway to the door before throwing up some mysterious thing she had managed to wolf down on our evening walk in the wilds of the deserted army lands. Nothing out of the ordinary, and we both shrugged it off and went about our business, she back to sleep and I restless and blogging.

It's been a dramatic time here in land o' bean. It started innocently enough, a couple of weeks ago, with a yearly visit to the doctor for an 'OK, little pinch now....AAARRRGGG...." internal exam. Always surreal to lie there and WILL your body into submission while a relative stranger does what would usually be considered wildly intimate things while urging you to relax, and ninety percent of your entire being wants to clamp your knees shut like a bear trap even if someone's head happens to be in the way. But oh well, all part of being a girl.

The surreal theme continued when this same doctor called me at school, in the middle of my busiest class, surrounded by teenage boys, to tell me that my test results were fine, except, uh, "There were some cells present where we wouldn't expect to find them. Probably nothing, but I'd like to just be sure..."

And what does this surety involve? Oh, just a little biopsy of parts usually unreachable, and for good reason. "Be sure to take some ibuprofen." I call to make the appointment, and the nurse tells me to take a LOT of ibuprofen. "No, really, like 600 milligrams, honey." I ask around, and the best anyone can tell me is that at least it's over in about 30 seconds, OK, maybe a minute really. But pretty quick.

The day arrives but there are complications because it seems a previous adventure in malpractice has left me almost without a cervix, which I mention to my doctor. He doesn't seem all that impressed sitting at his desk, jotting it down, but when faced with the real thing he lets out a 'Holy smokes!" as he realizes I wasn't exaggerating. Holy smokes isn't something you want your doctor to say in relation to any part of your anatomy, ever. And naturally, this previous assault upon my being now makes it ultra difficult to do this latest procedure, and results in the thirty seconds of pain thing extending into many more minutes of "You're being very brave now....very brave...." and a motherly nurse offering her hand so I could grip it instead of putting the doctor into a headlock. Yep. VERY brave.

Feeling like a newly-cored apple, I rushed home, herded dogs into the car, rushed to a vet's appointment, then to their walk, and onwards to teach night class. I was feeling fine until about eleven, when suddenly I spiked a fever, which lasted all night and made sleep scarce at best. Got up, dragged myself to school and called the doctor who told me to get to the hospital for blood tests and then come see him.

Finished school and did as I was told, giving enough blood to fill a Worcester sauce bottle. I thought I was just going to have a chat with the doctor, but no, another exam, little pinch....AAARGGG. Blood test came back and my white count was up. Back to the hospital for more two more bottles of Worcester sauce, one from each arm, and a prescription for major antibiotics.

Rushed to take dogs to dog park so puppy could get her fix, then to my pharmacy, which was now closed. Went to a second pharmacy, but after a long and involved computer search, they found that they no longer took my insurance. It was now 8:30 p.m.. I paid cash, got my drugs and crawled home.

The next day I called in sick for the first time in two years. No, not because of the medical things so much, although that was part of it, but something much worse. An inane piece of paperwork due to the state which turned out to be 27 pages long, about how politically correct I can be when teaching English learners, of which I have none. Yes, for this I missed a day of teaching ACTUAL students.

Next week I will get test results, and until then I take bright blue capsules twice a day and carry on, a bit tired and tingly in places I would rather not think about, but unbent. Time to look at what passes for the student paper this month and tweak it before it goes to press next week. Time to clean the house, which means undoing all the little touches the puppy has added, like pieces of twigs all over the floor, half-chewed, toys in various stages of destruction, and good old-fashioned dirt that she has brought in after digging in her sand box, which was once a planter. Time to catch my breath and wait for the next chapter, and hope it doesn't involve any more adventures in medical hi-jinx.