Carry on Doctor: But first......

We’re having our annual medicals next week and I’m trying to meditate away my anxiety.

John and I are both in great shape, with nothing to complain about. But the prospect of a check-up always makes us aware of Things That Could Go Wrong.

When we were younger, physicals took no time at all. You put an x beside all the items in the NO column – no serious illnesses; no operations; no palpitations or chest pain; no unusual bleeding – and the doctor examined your eyes, ears, throat, reflexes, and added a chest thump for good measure.

It’s different now. Our bodies have aged. Bits are shrivelling or falling off. And the doctor wants detailed information about bowels, bladders, breathing, sex life. Meanwhile, I want tips on memory retention.

Fortunately we have a wonderful GP. He’s the perfect age: halfway between adolescence and obsolescence (and, by the way, is it just my imagination or are medical schools now conferring degrees on 12 year olds?); and he’s prepared to sign an affidavit swearing he won’t retire until John and I are dead.

That’s because we’re the perfect medically-informed patients. John’s a doctor’s son – okay, full disclosure, his father was an obstetrician, but apart from a critical organ or two, what’s the difference? – and I like surfing the web, picking up nuggets of ailments, hoping to find a noteworthy but benign condition to call my own.

This on-line research also allows me to suggest diagnoses to the doctor, and to offer sage advice on prescriptions or tests he might like to send us for.

“What’s on your list today?” he usually asks as he enters the examining room. “And what have you decided we should do about it?”

He’s very appreciative of my para-medical knowledge, and is always prepared to make a good case for himself, should his professional opinion differ from mine.

Occasionally I’ll phone his assistant just to check on viruses and bacteria currently popular in our community. I like to be prepared.

“Hi, Katie. Anyone coming in complaining of headaches this week?” I ask.

“Nope.”

“How about upset tummies?”

“Nope.”

“Fever?”

“Nope.”

I move into more obscure territory: “Stiff necks? Breathing issues? Giddy spells? Tiny skin haemorrhages?”

“Nope,” says Katie, oath-bound to secrecy.

Nothing leaves me feeling healthier than these virtual visits to the clinic: it’s such a comfort to know I’m not exhibiting any symptoms of meningitis, malaria, or Ebola fever. Or even flu or food poisoning.

Sometimes I just radio ahead to be sure there’s nothing infectious lurking in the waiting room when I go to pick up the results of the tests I’ve asked for.

“Headaches? Upset tummies? Fever?”

“Nope, and before you ask, no stiff necks, breathing issues, giddy spells or tiny skin haemorrhages either. I think it’s safe to show up today,” sighs Katie with what I take to be empathy.

Let me quickly assure you: I’m not a hypochondriac. In fact, I radiate good health.

Not all my friends are so lucky. And what’s more, they want to tell you why. I used to allow five minutes of health-related conversation at our dinner parties. Now I’ve stretched it to ten. Anything more and there’s a chance we’ll all be subjected to the grisly details of entire procedures – sutures, drips, bedpans.

Some of us contract symptoms just from hearing about them. I need only get a whiff of a lump or lesion or bad back or sleeplessness and, by golly, the next day I feel a twinge.

That twinge inevitably leads to more energetic on-line investigation and before you know it, I’m facing the inescapable: death. Whether from sunstroke, a nosebleed, or haemorrhoids.

Yet somewhere between the Mayo Clinic website and YouAskedaQuack.com, I’ve also developed excellent diagnostic skills which I’m only too happy to share with medical professionals.

So wish me luck for my medical next week. And pray for my doctor.

 AN EPHRONESQUE OBSERVATION OF LIFE:  FROM THE PERILS OF FACEBOOK, THE ANNOYING TENDENCIES OF HUSBANDS WHO CO-SHOP, AND THE DEFECTIVE REARING OF GRANDCHILDREN, TO SPORTS CARS FOR THE MENOPAUSAL, BRAS THAT WINCH, AND CHIN HAIRS WITH MINDS OF THEIR OWN.

TO PURCHASE A PAPERBACK IN KINGSTON, VISIT NOVEL IDEA;

AND IN OTTAWA, TRY BOOKS ON BEECHWOOD ($20 + TAX);
OTHERWISE, ORDER FROM WWW.COWDY.HOUSE.COM
ALSO AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK FROM THE USUAL SOURCES.

Size Matters

“The hygiene police are ruining my life!” I grumbled to my husband, John, this morning after a sleepless night.

“According to the article I read at bedtime yesterday, it now takes seven minutes to produce two slices of cantaloupe: one to cut, and six to wash – the rind, the knife, your hands, the cutting board, the counter around the cutting board, and every innocuous item within a three foot perimeter.”

“And,” I thundered, “next time I cook a turkey, I’ll probably need to apply for a certificate from the health inspector!”

John knows better than to get between me and my eruptions. Especially when they’re based on a pamphlet that’s more than 10 years old.

“Apparently it’s no longer safe to let the bird defrost on the kitchen counter overnight before you roast it. Now you’ve got to allow three days for the thing to sit in the fridge – occupying two complete shelves – and half a day to hose down the kitchen with bleach, to kill lurking bacteria.”

“Even our toothbrushes are contaminated!” I was now in full sail. “Did you know that a flushing toilet can shoot rogue water droplets 18 inches around the bathroom? This afternoon you’re going to have to study our toilet’s trajectory and then based on your calculations, we’ll have to move all our personal hygiene equipment beyond that radius. If we lived in a small apartment, we’d need to keep our stuff in the car or a locker somewhere.”

“No kidding,” murmured John affably. He went back to fishing prunes out of his cereal.

My fury was actually aimed at the over-diligent hygiene police that conspicuously disregard the greatest health hazard confronting us today: the mini toilet stall. This is the tiny cubicle designed by misanthropically-motivated engineers for 6 year old anorexic Lilliputians. They also devised doors that open inward, making it impossible for the average woman to enter without sliding some piece of clothing through the unspeakable detritus that clings to public toilet seats.

These stalls are so small you can’t get in without climbing over the bowl. Backing in is the best solution; bent knees are inadvisable.

For hygiene-conscious foot-flushers the pivot (on the non-flushing leg) is recommended. Beware balance: one false move and you’re likely to be standing, submerged to the ankle in everything you were trying to get rid of.

Annoyingly, toilet manufacturers have invented insidious alternative contraptions like recessed mid-wall or tank-top knobs, to subvert foot-flushers. Unnatural acrobatics are required for a triumphant flush.

The only recourse is the traditional unhygienic manual flush: wrap layers of toilet paper around your hand and press down, ignoring what’s on the flusher that was formerly on your shoe – or someone else’s – and before that on the floor beside the toilet.

Mini stalls generally come equipped with toilet paper holders the size of inner tubes that dispense just one sheet before recoiling. The trick is to winkle out more without touching the edge of the germ-infested holder. Dexterity, four inch fingernails, and the thigh muscles of a musk ox are required.

“Personally, I take no chances!” My voice had now moved up an octave and I was starting my cadenza. “I keep an aerosol disinfectant in my purse for squirting on paper dispensers, seats, doors, handles, sinks, taps, and occasionally myself! To hell with the environment! Where are the hygiene police when we really need them?”

John, now immersed in the International Herald Tribune, looked up momentarily.

“I almost forgot,” he said, suppressing a rueful grin, “there was a message for you yesterday. Good news and bad. The bad news is that all your spraying is in breach of the Kyoto Accord. The good news is that they’re naming a hole in the ozone layer after you. And Al Gore says hello.”

 AN EPHRONESQUE OBSERVATION OF LIFE:  FROM THE PERILS OF FACEBOOK, THE ANNOYING TENDENCIES OF HUSBANDS WHO CO-SHOP, AND THE DEFECTIVE REARING OF GRANDCHILDREN, TO SPORTS CARS FOR THE MENOPAUSAL, BRAS THAT WINCH, AND CHIN HAIRS WITH MINDS OF THEIR OWN.

TO PURCHASE A PAPERBACK IN KINGSTON, VISIT NOVEL IDEA;

AND IN OTTAWA, TRY BOOKS ON BEECHWOOD ($20 + TAX);
OTHERWISE, ORDER FROM WWW.COWDYHOUSE.COM
ALSO AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK FROM THE USUAL SOURCES.

Climbing on my soapbox

A good friend once told me, "You’re so opinionated that if I helped you prepare a salad, you'd probably tell me I was slicing the radishes the wrong way." She was right.

I have opinions about everything: political subjects, social subjects, those of a personal nature. Raise a topic – any topic – and I’m sure to have something to say about it. The Chinese economy? No problem. The role of technology in today’s world? Easy. Parenting in the 21st century? Let me tell you……This is not necessarily a good thing: it pisses people off.

And what makes my opinions particularly annoying is that I distribute them, unsolicited and worldwide, through emails.

“Furcryinoutloud, not another one!” I can almost hear my friends and family sigh when one of my messages appears in their Inboxes. But, alas, electronic opinions and advice are my forte, and I issue both with gusto.

The offspring are among my most favoured beneficiaries. I send them little spontaneous notices – often about someone who’s died or at the very least suffered some terrible reversal of fortune – with a cheery line reminding them to take good care of themselves and count their blessings. “Dave’s mother went in her sleep this morning. Took a sip of water, closed her eyes, and that was that. You’ll live longer if you take your Vitamin Bs daily instead of just when the urge strikes you.”

Or, “Darlings, it’s snowing a lot here. Hope you’re having a great time in Florida, but fingers crossed you threw those spiked overshoes I bought you last Christmas into the trunk of the car for your trip home from the airport.”

I just can’t help myself.

The point is I like to opine, and I love to write. I can sit by my computer for hours, willing it to produce an incoming message. This can sometimes take all morning. But I’m a patient person, and when that little pi-ping goes off and there’s a (1) beside my Inbox, I am filled with anticipation. Of course the excitement evaporates immediately if it’s the Art Gallery broadcasting next month’s activities; or one of those exasperating ads for penis enhancers (I’d like to know why the people that send these wicked messages haven’t yet figured out that I don’t have one). But if it’s a message from a friend, I get right to it and fire off a response.

Not just any response, but a long, detailed one that might go on for three or four or twelve paragraphs. The sort of thing that, were it on lovely vellum, you’d take into the bathroom with you for company. And it’s full of opinions and advice.

So, in the interests of keeping family and friends from deserting me entirely, I’ve decided a blog will be my diversionary outlet. My very own opinion ventilation mechanism.

It’ll show up on Saturdays – with a link – beginning February 5th. If you enjoy reading it, add it to your Favourites and forward it to your friends so they too can follow my weekly rants. And astute observations.

  

 AN EPHRONESQUE OBSERVATION OF LIFE:  FROM THE PERILS OF FACEBOOK, THE ANNOYING TENDENCIES OF HUSBANDS WHO CO-SHOP, AND THE DEFECTIVE REARING OF GRANDCHILDREN, TO SPORTS CARS FOR THE MENOPAUSAL, BRAS THAT WINCH, AND CHIN HAIRS WITH MINDS OF THEIR OWN.

TO PURCHASE A PAPERBACK IN KINGSTON, VISIT NOVEL IDEA;

AND IN OTTAWA, TRY BOOKS ON BEECHWOOD ($20 + TAX);
OTHERWISE, ORDER FROM WWW.COWDYHOUSE.COM 
ALSO AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK FROM THE USUAL SOURCES.