Old enough to pee in a cup.?

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Diary: I Feel Pretty

Password: iamloved

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I’ve been putting off scheduling a physical all summer. Partly because I didn’t want to hear that I was in too high a percentile which in doctor terms means “I was trying to say this lightly, but…you need to lose weight….fatty.” Something like that. I’m one of those folks that doesn’t like to be poked and prodded, ergo I don’t like doctor visits. MD stands for “I dedicated an insane chunk of my life to learning where to poke and prod your body and exactly how often (too often)”.

I am also still seeing my pediatritian. A man (*selfconsiouscringe*) and a family friend (*selfconsciouscringe*). Not to mention that I am conspicuously the only patient in the waiting room anymore that doesn’t have a parent signing me in and out. I would say I’m the only patient that can see over the front desk but that’s a bit of a stetch even for imagery augmentation.

Seeing as my physical forms were due July 1, I had my physical on Friday (July 11). How was I not born late? Point one for Allison, I managed to schedule with a female doctor instead this time around.

I pulled into the parking lot and realized that I’d probably have to pee in a cup. I’d emptied my bladder before leaving the house so I cast about in my car and came up with half a bottle of warm water. I downed it in the elevator and refilled before the office. By the time they called my name I was finishing off the refill. I figured, if there’s a place to get water poisoning the doctor’s is it.

My doctor is Russian, really nice, and talks in a constant accested stream. I caught every fifth word. Her fastpasted poking was fine with me if it sped things up. By the time she asked me to go do my thing in the cup for the pee-techies, I had to go. Which turned out to be a little problematic. You’d think that having been alive for 18 years and potty trained for 15+ of them that I’d be able to gauge just what angle to jettison urine into a small target.

You’d think.

TMI! TMI! Ah, you ventured here. The best thing to say is that I got the job done. Twice over, not that the techs needed that much. And I washed my hands, put the cup in the pee-cabinet for the urine fairies to spirit away. The world went on.

I only had to get two shots. One a Chickenpox booster. I now have a cold dogging my nose. Dammit. I think it’s giving me weird dreams. Weirder than normal. Last night I dreampt I was dressed in football gear (in a bright pink jersey) because the rest of my school had some gala that day with football dress requirements. So on the way to the school thing (which was held on a plane or a bus, something of the like) I passed an NFL game going on. They were in the last seconds and last HIKE, so I jumped on the ball which was arms lengths away from the touchdown but i let it squirt out because i didnt want people to suddenly realize I wasn’t supposed to be there. Then I got up and walked into the locker room. Cut to a footballer who followed me into the lockeroom and says “I swear I thought a girl was on the field”.

yeah.

One other blip on the doctor visit screen.  “Do you sleep a lot?” (If a lot is all the time, yes) “Do you wear a jacket when other people seem hot?” (I do seem to love my peacoat. It’s so fuzzy. And warm…Yes.)”

“I think you have an enlarged thyroid”. Another doctor came in, felt up my thyroid (is that 5th base?), and concurred. Well, shit, if that means I have an excuse for having half the energy I should? HA at all those people that rolled their eyes because I fell asleep on them.

And then she said, “Here’s a note, go get your blood tested.”

So, high on thinking that I might weedle sleeping in a few more days with my mum over the diagnosis, I went to get my blood tested. Any thoughts of needles were far from the surface. Until I sat in the waiting room and pondered the phrase “blood test”. I’m pretty sure I paled. I waited and waited and waited and a really tall Indian guy called my name.

I shuffled into the small curtained cell and sat down in the reclined chair with a tray attached. A tray home to several needles. Sorry, sir, but all that blood you want? It just evaporated from my body. Tata for now, eh?

He asked if I was scared, probably as small talk. Nausea trekked across my face in place of all the relocated blood. “Do you have a preference?” Bloodloss and incoherency combined to keep communication at a basic hand signal level. He pointed hesitantly at my left arm and then started tapping at it. Then cleaning it.

I tried to go to the “happy place” people talk about. It eluded me.

You’re thinking, what a four year old. Think of it this way. A needle to you is a small steel line the size of a few hair widths. To me I see an overblown syringe the size of a punching bag with a tusk-thick needle aiming straight for the tender sea that is my arm. It’s all very dramatic. Sometimes, if you listen closely, there is loud scary music.

It wasn’t that bad. It was mostly just a pinch and knowing that a needle was sticking out of my arm draining blood into a few viles on a tray. And that. If I ever needed pills it would be to dull my imagination.

When I left and sat in my car – staring at the tape around my recently punctured arm – I took inventory. Do I feel lightheaded? No. Nauseous? No. Stupid? A little.

I turned on the engine and prepared to press the brake so I could shift into reverse. Only I hit the gas and revved the engine loudly (no doubt that is terrible for my engine but I’m lucky I wasn’t in drive).

Can I drive? Give it a minute.