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Tuesday, August 2, 2016

How Often Does Your Doctor Think You Have Intercourse?

Grand Dog

I went to the doctor yesterday to get a referral for the Ear, Nose and Throat specialist. There was a man in his high nineties at the counter, yelling his head off at an extraordinary volume at the receptionist when I walked in. 

He wasn’t yelling abuse; he was just deaf and couldn’t hear himself.

As he began to lurch away from the counter on his walking stick, I leaped from my seat and rounded the corner to open the heavy door for him. The hall leading to the door was quite long and I had to stand holding the door for an inordinately awkward amount of time as he shuffled towards me chuckling to himself and shouting, “Goody goody girly! Goody goody girly!”
I wasn't sure if he was making fun of me or praising me.

I was the only person in the waiting room who was capable of opening the door because everyone else there was at least a hundred and ten and on a walking frame.

It’s the mountain vibe.

I saw my life flash before me.

When I finally got in to see the very young doctor he read my report from the audiologist and said in a matter of fact tone, “Well, the hearing in your right ear is rubbish. You’ll probably need a hearing aid.”

“Oh well,” I said in an optimistic manner but feeling quite deflated. “There’re worse things that could happen.”
“Yes,” he said staring at me intently. “You could be dead.”

I had actually been thinking about loss of sight but yes, death would be worse… wtf.

Then he wrote a referral to the specialist and in the letter he described me as a fifty-five year old, high functioning female.

I adopted quite a youthful spring in my step after I read it.

I went straight home to Scotto bragging loudly that the doctor thinks I’m ‘high functioning’ and how awesome and high functioning I was.

But the more I thought about it the more I became concerned that ‘high functioning’ was ‘doctor code’ for ‘high functioning alcoholic’.

Remember how the previous doctor had noted on my records that I drink three glasses of wine a day and had given me a stern and shameful lecture?

I should have told that doctor to bloody go and bloody well high function himself.

(If you’re a doctor and you’re reading this please confirm my suspicions.)

Also in the letter, it stated at the bottom that I take an antibiotic after intercourse.
I’m not quite sure of the relevance this has to being deaf in the right ear.

Unless the intercourse actually occurs in the ear how can this information be significant?

Besides, if it’s a medication related issue, how often do they assume I take the antibiotic? 

Couldn't the doctor have written, "Only takes antibiotic when the Cowboys win the NRL fixtures? Or only when Scotto beats Pinky at The Chaser? Or only every second Sunday when Pinky wakes up in a particularly good mood and has had one of those dreams about the Bondi Vet"? 

My son Hagar, his girlfriend, Meggles and my baby granddog, Diego came and stayed with us for a few days this week. 

I was so excited on the morning they were to arrive I went and sat in the driveway with the cat, waiting for them to pull into my street. I sat on a rock beside the letterbox for hours, like a kid waiting for the ice-cream truck. The neighbour, Anne, drove past me and waved with a puzzled look on her face.

But I loved having them stay so much. I adore all of them and can’t wait until Christmas when I’ll see all of the kids again.

Grand Dog and his parents at Elephant Rock

I babysat Diego for a day.

I didn’t work this week but I don’t care because I actually hate work and who needs money anyway? (Except to buy hearing aids and pay for specialist appointments).

I’d like a job where I can sleep in and I just have to babysit Chihuahuas all day.

Grandad Scotto and Grand Dog Diego