I have a VERY EMBARRASSING Doctor story I’ve been holding in.
I want to protect the innocent. I’m going to keep some details to myself, but I just can’t hold this silliness in any longer.
I’ve traveled all over New England and seen so many specialists I can’t remember their names. Sometimes, I will combine the names of two doctors that someone in the family is seeing (ex. Murray Stone, a combination of Dr. Murray, a gastroentological surgeon at DHMC and Dr. Stone, leading genius behind the first clinical study I participated in.)
It’s all very complicated.
So on one of my many visits, I was having an extremely rough day.
It was difficult traveling to the hospital. The traffic was nasty. We got a little lost.
I was trying to entertain some friends and make a “mini vacation” out of the travel, and it was just too much for my sick self.
I had my niece and my son with me, and during the appointment, I had to leave them with friends.
In trying to organize the hotel, the transportation, my consult, my friends, and the kids, I dropped my wallet in the hotel room.
My wallet containing my ID and my insurance information, without which I can’t receive treatment.
I discovered this when I went to register and the nasty woman told me I couldn’t see the doctor. I started to cry. Then I screamed, hollered, and demanded a manager.
The manager was a little more human, but still heartless. She kept saying “It’s just one of those days.”
What? “Bitch, I’m having one of those lives, how dare you make it MORE difficult.” I kept thinking.
Anyway, I made it to the waiting room, hid in a corner, closed my eyes, and wiped my tears. I’d be damned if another person saw me cry.
When the nurse called me in, I got up, turned the corner, and whoa, almost ran straight into this man.
He was attractive. I noticed. How could I not when we almost ran each other over?
Sitting in the consult room I started thinking, “Wait a second, maybe, that was my doctor.”
Since diagnosis, I’ve told my friends there is an attractiveness quotient to treating me. Apparently, I only get 8s or up on the scale to care for me.
Yes, Dr. Hottie walked in the door. Dammit.
In consults, you sit, talk about options, take notes, ask questions, etc.,etc.,etc.
Dr. Hottie notified me that I was having trouble locating a donor that matched, because somewhere along the line, my parents were related!
Yes, I’m an in-breed. My “c locus” has the same gene donated by both my father and mother.
This is embarrassing moment number one, but it gets worse.
Dr. Hottie had the cutest, superior, holier-than-thou accent. After the consult, I was taken into another room for my assessment. This is just how it’s done.
My neck gets poked at, my shoulders, my stomach. My heart gets a listen along with my lungs.
There are nodes in the groin area. Nobody really assesses these since I’ve never had disease “down there” before. Doctors generally take my word that these nodes are unchanged. Apparently, this guy is thorough.
“Drop your pants.” He stated.
“Excuse me?!” I said. I really meant for it to come out as a polite “Excuse me? What did you say?” but no, I was defensive and having a bad day, so the comment came out “EXCUSE ME, I JUST MET YOU. I require dinner and conversation before I do THAT.”
His hands went up in the air like he was about to be arrested and his cheeks turned bright red, “You you you don’t usually have this assessed?” he stammered.
Dammit. I am so embarrassed. I need to control myself. Better yet, I need someone to control ME. This poor man never saw me coming. They never do.
“Oh, yes. I’m so sorry.” I said, averting my eyes and unbuckling my belt to follow directions.
Do you think it could get any worse? It did. I was not prepared to be giving peep shows. Did I have on my scandalous Vicki secrets? No. Did I have on conservative granny panties? No.
I had on little boy style underwear with “KISS” written across the front in big bold letters.
I’m pretty sure he read the message. I think I might die admitting this. I have never, ever gotten my clothes on faster.
Just thought I’d send out a little laugh at my expense. Don’t take yourselves to seriously. Happy Holidays.
Baldies' Blog began originally in the UK by a 26 year old journalist with a blood cancer on a mission to inform the world about bone marrow donation.
He has since died, and I took on the cause of making cancer care more transparent for everybody.
Cancer is a disease that will touch everybody through diagnosis or affiliation: 1 in 2 men will be diagnosed and 1 in 3 woman will hear those words, "You Have Cancer."
I invite you to read how I feel along my journey and
how I am continuing to live a full life alongside my Hodgkin's lymphoma, with me controlling my cancer, not my cancer controlling me.
I hope that "Baldies' Blog" will prepare you to handle whatever life sends you, but especially if it's the message, "You Have Cancer."