06E044
There are three
questions I dread each year during my physical: “Do you do examine your breasts
monthly, do you drink more than one glass of wine or alcohol a day, and what is
the date of your last period?" So
dreaded, that I lie to the first two, and mentally shut down on the last.
I don’t like to
lie, but the looks of horror by healthcare professionals at my negligence of
breast self-exams, or the admission of daily wine consumption drove me to
it—these lies make them happy. “Yes,
I do regular monthly self-exams, and yes, I have one small glass of wine each
night.” These lies put to memory; I struggle over the approaching ‘period’
inquisition.
Waiting, I’m
creating my answer. Thirty days hath
September—no that's number of days in a month.
Months that end in an "R?" No, those are the months you can
eat oysters. Crap. Let's see, ovulation is every 21 days—no, I
think that’s Leap Year—is it 27 days? The
nurse interrupts my crafting, “Date
of last period?"
I’ve got
nothing. "Do you want the first day of my last period or the last day of my last period?" Knowing neither, but believing this response
gives credence to my delay.
The nurse is holding her pencil
poised over my chart. "Either is fine."
Stalling unsuccessful, grasping for
some memory of my last period, I ask, “May I call my husband?”
“Your
husband knows the date of your last period?”
“Well…”
Remembering, I see myself procuring a last square of chocolate from the
freezer. My husband, spotting me, is demanding half. Lunging, tripping over one of our dogs, he’s grabbing for my now
empty hand, and lands hard on one knee.
His limp is almost gone, but his desire for revenge very much
alive. Deciding against bringing my
husband into this conversation, I change my answer.
"Three weeks.”
“Three
Weeks, is that your answer?"
Final
answer—studying her, as the Jeopardy song
is plays in my head, I chance it. “Yes,
three weeks.”
Apparently
satisfied, except in need of a specific date, she’s looking around for a
calendar. Finding one she counts
backwards. "So that would be
February 18?"
Feeling
I’ve done my part by giving her my
sweet three-week answer, I think she should come up with the date, but
want to stay on her good side, so agree.
Glad to have that behind us, and
anticipating her next question, I am mentally rehearsing the lies I’ve
prepared. The nurse looks up, “Have you had a colonoscopy?”
I
hear the question, but can’t stop the practiced response, “Yes, I do regular
monthly self-exams.”
WARNING! 50+YEAR-OLDS!
DOCTORS HAVE ADDED A NEW QUESTION FOR THE AGED PATIENT. IT’S ON COLONOSCOPY—THE RIGHT ANSWER IS NOT—I
REPEAT NOT—THAT YOU DO YOUR OWN SELF-EXAM.
Trying to win favor, and remove that FREAK SHOW look from her face, I smile confessing, “I drink wine, lots of wine—everyday.”