I finally went to a doctor on the mountain the other day because over the last few weeks I've lived with an ear that’s pretty much one hundred per cent deaf… plus I’ve had an itchy, brown spot which rudely appeared near my eye six months ago which I’ve been watching with suspicion, plus a red spot on my nose emerged which I assumed was a skin cancery thing and my nose would have to be unceremoniously removed toot sweet.
Not that I'd miss my nose on an aesthetic basis.
But after some frantic, medico-google-research I eventually deducted I had a severe case of filthy ear wax, plus a life threatening melanoma, so I booked in for a skin check and an ear syringe job.
But after some frantic, medico-google-research I eventually deducted I had a severe case of filthy ear wax, plus a life threatening melanoma, so I booked in for a skin check and an ear syringe job.
No biggy...
What I didn’t know was that this doctor was one of those annoyingly ‘thorough’ types. You know, the ones who do their jobs properly and take your blood pressure and insist on blood tests and stuff.
Plus he asked me some highly personal questions about how much ‘akahol’ I drink.
I tried to remain resolute. “Three drinks a day!” I declared with a certain doe-eyed innocence.
“Every day?” his eye brow was raised as he typed the information into the manifesto. “You know that’s too much for a woman. Sometimes men drink that much because they’re… not feeling good about their life…”
“I love my life,” I retorted indignantly. “I’m not depressed. I just love the taste.”
All this time I was strongly suspecting he was doing what most doctors do and tripling the amount I admitted to drinking in his head.
I know they do that.
Good news: no skin cancer.
What I didn’t know was that this doctor was one of those annoyingly ‘thorough’ types. You know, the ones who do their jobs properly and take your blood pressure and insist on blood tests and stuff.
Plus he asked me some highly personal questions about how much ‘akahol’ I drink.
I tried to remain resolute. “Three drinks a day!” I declared with a certain doe-eyed innocence.
“Every day?” his eye brow was raised as he typed the information into the manifesto. “You know that’s too much for a woman. Sometimes men drink that much because they’re… not feeling good about their life…”
“I love my life,” I retorted indignantly. “I’m not depressed. I just love the taste.”
All this time I was strongly suspecting he was doing what most doctors do and tripling the amount I admitted to drinking in his head.
I know they do that.
Good news: no skin cancer.
Apparently my brown spot is merely a barnacle (his words).
It seems I’m growing barnacles now.
It seems I’m growing barnacles now.
What next?
He looked in both my ear holes. No wax. My eardrums were all out there, shining like dew-encrusted mushrooms.
That’s not very good because… why am I deaf in the ear hole?
So now I have to go for hearing tests.
The deafness could indicate glue ear, nerve damage from the recent shingles attack, or maybe a brain tumour.
Surprisingly, I’m suspecting nerve damage. I feel a brain tumour is very unlikely because I haven’t had a headache for years.
I told the lovely doctor I most probably wouldn’t go for the blood tests he wanted to prescribe because I’m afraid of medical tests and doctors.
He looked a bit pissed off. “We aren’t here to hurt you, you know,” he said.
“I know,” I nodded with expert contrariness. "You doctors are all lovely."
“Why are you afraid, then?” he asked, his face a picture of befuzzlement.
“I’m just scared of the results,” I mouthed silently.
“But that’s just silly. We can’t make you do anything,” he cajoled. “Even if your liver is shot to pieces you could still have one drink a day.”
“I know,” I agreed. “Print out the tests and we’ll see… maybe I’ll go.”
Maybe I will.
Or maybe I FUDGING WON’T.
He looked in both my ear holes. No wax. My eardrums were all out there, shining like dew-encrusted mushrooms.
That’s not very good because… why am I deaf in the ear hole?
So now I have to go for hearing tests.
The deafness could indicate glue ear, nerve damage from the recent shingles attack, or maybe a brain tumour.
Surprisingly, I’m suspecting nerve damage. I feel a brain tumour is very unlikely because I haven’t had a headache for years.
I told the lovely doctor I most probably wouldn’t go for the blood tests he wanted to prescribe because I’m afraid of medical tests and doctors.
He looked a bit pissed off. “We aren’t here to hurt you, you know,” he said.
“I know,” I nodded with expert contrariness. "You doctors are all lovely."
“Why are you afraid, then?” he asked, his face a picture of befuzzlement.
“I’m just scared of the results,” I mouthed silently.
“But that’s just silly. We can’t make you do anything,” he cajoled. “Even if your liver is shot to pieces you could still have one drink a day.”
“I know,” I agreed. “Print out the tests and we’ll see… maybe I’ll go.”
Maybe I will.
Or maybe I FUDGING WON’T.
