Follicular Cancer Lady - Chapter 22: Prize Pig vs. The Skinny Lady

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Chapter 22
"Prize Pig vs. The Skinny Lady"
10/31/04

I know I already wrote my follicular finale, but after my last visit to the doctor I simply couldn't help myself...

Good communication is the key to any strong relationship. A patient's relationship with their doctor is certainly no exception. It is important that you are open and honest with your physician, and they in turn should extend the same courtesy to you. Lord Endocron is very clear and does not mince words. He actually has a penchant for stating the obvious. I guess he wants to make sure I don't miss a thing.

At my last appointment he entered the room swiftly, and before the word hello had fully escaped my mouth, he said, "You're gaining all the weight back! That's not what you want to do." As you can imagine, this information came as a great shock to me. What a prize pig I'd been stuffing my face with Oreos all month trying to fatten up for the fair. I felt as though as I had Twinkie cream all over my face and a pizza box in my lap.

"Are you sure?" I asked him as he wrote my weight in large numbers on a piece of paper. "Because I could have sworn last month you recommended a strict diet of pizza and doughnuts with absolutely no exercise. Well, now that I know I'm not supposed to be getting fat, I'll act accordingly. Really, I appreciate the information." (Sarcasm is now dripping out of my pores, that has to be at least 2 pounds right there.)

We then proceeded to the ritual that concludes our brief encounters. During this time the doctor, via a small microphone, reviews with his computer everything we have discussed. In the meantime, I pretend I'm busy studying various models of organs and diagrams of the human body on the wall.

On this particular visit, I feigned interest in two posters of naked women. One naked woman was bug eyed and bony with hanging skin. She looked like a woman who'd just worked a 14-hour shift at an all night diner yet was somehow still awake (probably due to the carton of cigarettes she smoked on the drive home.) This woman would not hesitate to tell you her son is a lazy son of a b*tch, she's having problems with her sciatica again and this damn coffee is giving her the runs. Directly to her right, was a dumpier naked woman who slightly resembled a hound dog. This woman looked as though she'd just taken a shot of Nyquil and would pass out at any moment (right after she finished her bag of chips.) I wondered who had posed for the drawings and how they would feel if they knew I was staring at them right now as I listened to my doctor and his computer laugh about the three pounds I'd gained. I bet the skinny woman would light up a cigarette and tell them both they could go to hell.

After making sure I was clear about whether or not I wanted to "gain all the weight back," the doctor asked me if I had any other symptoms his computer should know about. There was one. But I couldn't bring myself to say it. I internally chided myself for being unfaithful to the open, honest relationship he obviously strove for. I had even psyched myself up for it on the drive over. I assured myself that he is a doctor and this is a natural bodily function. But when the time came, I simply couldn't cowboy up and do it. I'm sure it would have sprung with ease from the mouth of the naked skinny woman but saying the words "loose stool" with a straight face is more than I can handle. If I couldn't even say the words, how would I begin to convey to a man who converses with his IBM that the contents of my toilet bowl sometimes resembled a sand storm underwater?

As much as I hated it when I was young, I began to wish I had an adult there to act as intermediary between me and the doctor. My grandmother had no problems telling not only doctors but any adult within hearing range about the consistency and regularity of my daily output. When I was about 11, I stood mortified in a grocery store line as she told the check out clerk I had diarrhea that wouldn't stop and she just didn't know what to do. What followed was a 10-minute conversation about my bowel history that every woman within a 15-foot radius contributed advice to. Yep, I'm a 27-year-old woman who needs my grandmother to tell the doctor about my bowels. Somehow I would find that less embarrassing than just explaining it myself.

So I just sat there in my doctor's office, and under the disapproving bug eyes of the skinny woman, I lied and said everything was normal. Feeling quite sure that at any moment he'd take my picture and make me the hound dog lady's replacement, I kept my fat mouth shut, and went on my happy way. I didn't really see the point in telling him anyway. I knew he'd only look me right in the eye and say, "That's not what you want to poo!" and then laugh about it with his computer.

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