I just returned from my newly resurrected custom of taking a power walk along the river. With winter approaching it’s dark by the time I get home at this time of year and the river bank was resplendent with thousands of glittering fireflies. Gorgeous!
The trek up the river, however, was not as pleasant. Who should Pinky happen to have the misfortune to cross paths with, but her cheerless family doctor.
Why would running into your doctor be such a calamity you silly woman? I hear you asking whilst rolling your eyes and sighing.
Well, you didn’t see the evil glinting eye and disapproving grimace she happened to fire at me as I walked past her, waving and smiling jovially, and I’m not being paranoid.
I went to visit Doctor Killjoy in her surgery about five months ago, seeking advice about some minor ailment or another.
“So Pinky…” she began to predictably scold, “I see you haven’t had your bloods checked for three years. You should be getting them checked every year once you get past forty years of age you know.”
“Yes, I know… it’s just been so hectic lately,” I replied meekly.
“Well I’m filling out this form for you to have an iron and lipids check and stats on your kidney and liver function. It’s just a general check-up and if you go for the test tomorrow morning I can fit you in next week to discuss the results.”
“No worries!” I chirped agreeably. “I’ll see you next week then Doctor!.”
As I stated, that was five months ago.
I don’t want to go for those tests, ever.
What if the fun police discover I only have one square centimetre of functioning liver remaining? Will I have to give up my nightly tipple? That’s never going to happen now is it?
For more on how Pinky knows she doesn’t have a drinking problem read … here
The other thing that really puts me off having these horrifically invasive tests, is being ordered to fast for twelve hours. I honestly don’t think I’d be physically capable of getting out of bed; getting dressed, driving to the clinic and sitting in a waiting room with sickly looking people for at least an hour whilst reading two year old New Ideas... all without two cups of milky Nescafe and two sugars please. How do people do it?
On a certain birthday ending with a zero, I was sitting on my bed reflectingly gazing out the window when I espied the postman attempting to squeeze a parcel and a letter (maybe a card with a voucher inside!) in my mail box.
The other thing that really puts me off having these horrifically invasive tests, is being ordered to fast for twelve hours. I honestly don’t think I’d be physically capable of getting out of bed; getting dressed, driving to the clinic and sitting in a waiting room with sickly looking people for at least an hour whilst reading two year old New Ideas... all without two cups of milky Nescafe and two sugars please. How do people do it?
On a certain birthday ending with a zero, I was sitting on my bed reflectingly gazing out the window when I espied the postman attempting to squeeze a parcel and a letter (maybe a card with a voucher inside!) in my mail box.
Racing downstairs I eagerly bounced out the front door to see which lovely friend or relative had gone to the trouble of sending me a birthday surprise.
The letter was an official missive advising me that I was now eligible for a free mammogram and the parcel was a bowel testing kit. Charming… so this is what happens when you reach this particular milestone in your life.
I could get my head around the mammogram but there is no way I am laying a piece of tissue in the toilet bowl, pooping on it, scraping some of the poop off the top, placing it in a jar, and then mailing it to some long-suffering pathologist who was sadly counselled by a very incompetent career advisor.
Is there anything fricking nice about getting old?
The letter was an official missive advising me that I was now eligible for a free mammogram and the parcel was a bowel testing kit. Charming… so this is what happens when you reach this particular milestone in your life.
I could get my head around the mammogram but there is no way I am laying a piece of tissue in the toilet bowl, pooping on it, scraping some of the poop off the top, placing it in a jar, and then mailing it to some long-suffering pathologist who was sadly counselled by a very incompetent career advisor.
Is there anything fricking nice about getting old?
