Several weeks ago I woke up with a dull ache behind my right rib cage. As the day progressed the pain became somewhat sharper in nature to the point that it became inconvenient to perform certain minor functions, such as:
sitting
walking
laying down
thinking
speaking
hearing
breathing
and eating
I came to the conclusion which I think most rational minded people would have…Rib cage cancer. After consulting with a few of my friends they narrowed it down to my being clinically insane.
Perhaps, but how does that affect my ribs??
I decided to go online- visiting a widely popular medical site- so that I might efficiently diagnose the problem. These sites actually make me feel worse!
While I couldn’t substantiate my theory of rib cage cancer, after perusing the site, I believe that I may have sciatica, gastro-intestinal anomalies, Chrohn’s Disease, a heart murmur, COPD, the beginning stages of Dengue fever and dementia. I also might be pregnant.
This was most unsettling news to say the least. So, I did what anyone would do...I waited to see what song would play next on my car radio so as not to waste a good song while gabbing on the cell.
I called to make an appointment with my doctor. Of course, I didn’t get to speak with the actual doctor as doctors are quite busy doing important things such as dodging phone calls and dealing with pharmaceutical representatives.
Figuring that I might outline my symptoms on the phone, I did all that I could in the hope of skipping an office visit. Doctors will always insist upon an office visit because they are sworn to a Hippocratic Oath and take personal and humane responsibility to run up the tab to your HMO.
Knowing that this was probably the end of the line for me, I partied most of the night away like a rock star.
I showed up for my appointment at 11am, precisely on time. A small pocket of the Eastern Standard Time zone apparently runs through the block in New Orleans where my doctor‘s office is located- I was called back to the examination area at about 12:15pm.
No one appears to be happy in the waiting area of a doctor’s office. The room is filled with people wearing empty stares as though they’re awaiting a last minute pardon from the governor before heading to the electric chair.
It’s typically not fertile chit chat ground, except for the obnoxiously loud, healthy, guy who has clearly given his sick buddy a ride to the doctor‘s office. His ailing friend looked as though he’d like to have his buddy euthanized while they were there.
I’m well aware that people are at the doctor’s office because something is wrong, thus, I’m not looking to brush against deep topics like, say, the global impact that China’s latest economic indicator data holds...specifically as it relates to their GDP and the Asian markets. I‘m talking about simple stuff. It seemed to be my lucky day- since no one in the waiting area wanted anything to do with the obnoxious guy, he started talking to ME.
I’m usually good at evading conversation when I’m under the weather, so I erected the chit-chat barricade by announcing that I suspect that I have Swine Flu. That didn’t work. He then asked who I thought was a better singer, Kris Allen or Adam Lambert. My lucky streak continues…He’s an American Idol fan. Terrific.
Fortunately I was rescued when the nurse called my name. Upon my arrival to the mysterious land beyond the pale wooden door, the lovely, and quite attractive, nurse began to take vital statistics. Our first stop…the scales.
I stepped onto the scale as she fiddled with the little balance thingy and announced that I’ve lost 3 pounds since my last visit. I, of course, asked the logical question:
“Does that indicate a terminal illness?”
She blankly stared, never answering my question. I knew it!! Something MUST be wrong.
We arrived to the examination room where the nurse asked me to hop up on the table. I asked if I needed to take off my clothes, to which she politely informed me that I should remain clothed. I cooperatively told her to give me the word when and if the time comes to disrobe. So that I would be fully prepared for the “execute” order, I went ahead and unbuckled my belt to be safe.
The nurse performed her routine, beginning with the blood pressure test. After the uncomfortable silence had passed she jotted something down on the chart and announced that my BP was 119 over 70, as though I should somehow know what those figures meant.
Sounds like an upset in an NBA match to me. At the risk of sounding stupid, I played it safe and asked if those numbers indicated heart disease. She politely informed me that the doctor would be in shortly. I now fully suspected that this woman was keeping something from me.
The doc arrived about 15-minutes later with a breezy hello and handshake and asked what was bothering me today. I explained that the guy in the waiting room had irritated me a bit and that I felt deep concern about all of the secrecy with regard to my vital signs. Because she is an extremely smart doctor, she clarified, asking in a more pointed fashion. I told her of the rib cage pain and questioned her track record with treating rib cage cancer.
A few of my guy friends give me crap about having a female doctor. I give them crap for letting a guy stick his hand in their ass during THEIR check-ups. That usually shuts them up rather quickly.
My doctor is a pretty cool woman and doesn’t harp, judge or lecture- she does, however, take every opportunity to ask about my smoking habits.
Doc: You still smoking?
Me: Yeah…but only socially
Doc: That’s still not good, because I know your social schedule. You need to quit. How many cigarettes do you smoke per day?
Me: Um, maybe a half pack
Doc: (using her piercing superman stare)
Me: Hey, is your nurse single??
Doc: She’s married
Me: Happily??
The doc began her physical exam of my rib cage, which is to say that I felt as though I were a play-toy in an episode of “Prison Bitch.” She poked, pressed and prodded until I began to cry.
Inquiring about my pain level, she asked that I rate it on a scale of 1 to 10- (10 being extreme). I’m not good at communicating with the number system- I like to humanize facts with relatable analogies. I told her that my pain level was somewhere between a Karaoke bar and Glen Beck- the Karaoke bar being on the low to moderate end.
Making small talk, I inquired as to whether the doc thought Cialis was right for me. She didn't seem to think Cialis was, in fact right for me, which I took as a compliment.
After the exam the doc brought two important issues to my attention:
1. I smelled like stale beer from the previous evening
2. It appears that the rib cage cancer test came up negative
Apparently I strained a piece of cartilage behind my rib cage. I asked if she thought it would be helpful if the nurse came back and gave me a massage. She felt that a massage would be unnecessary today.
I dated a nurse once. I felt that I sealed the deal with her after our first date when, in lieu of flowers, I presented her with a stalk of broccoli. I believe we went out for pizza and a keg of beer that night- so much for good health.
Believe me when I tell you, there’s an added sense of comfort in dating a nurse, in that if I were to accidentally be attacked by a bear while we’re on a romantic Sunday nature stroll, she’s qualified to administer emergency field treatment.
The bad thing about dating a nurse is that they are astutely aware of EVERYTHING that you don’t want to know. They’ll share helpful facts such as:
“Your resting heart rate last night was 165.”
My first thought being, I wonder what it was while we were having sex?? I’d better make out my will.
After scaring the hell out of me she tried to back peddle, calmly assuring that it was most likely due to a dream. Medical professional or not, she’s still a woman…as evidenced by her next question.
“So- what were you dreaming about??”
Any question followed by the word “So” makes me want to gouge my eyes with a cocktail fork. I wonder what my heart rate measured at this point?
I’m certain that dealing with my insurance company elevates my heart rate. By the way, hypochondria isn’t a medically covered condition. I believe the HR manager referred to it as a character flaw.
WHY is it necessary to send a bill that says “This is NOT a bill”? I feel strongly that if the insurance companies would donate the money to research centers that they spend on sending out “quasi-bills” we would have a disease-free society. I suppose that wouldn’t be good for their business though.
My insurance company gives discounts for voluntary healthy lifestyle activities such as gym memberships, etc. I’m active, I’m at my ideal weight and live a fairly healthy lifestyle- with the exception of drinking, smoking, walking to my car through bad neighborhoods at 2am, eating fried chicken, running with scissors, constantly driving 20-miles over the speed limit and insulting a 200lb drunk obnoxious guy a few weeks ago. I had a spinach salad for lunch today however which, I feel, offsets any unhealthy choices.
I walk a lot. I attribute that to the extremely health conscience environment that New Orleans fosters…no one wants to lose their parking space.
Walking always seems like a good idea, until reality sets in that you have to actually walk BACK. My rigid walking regimen usually concludes about halfway with a cab fare.
As my ribs heal I now have an excuse to take a cab but I thought it would also be a good time to adopt a few extra healthy choices in my life. When I eat fried chicken from now on I’m going to eat it in the parking lot at the gym.
I’m also going to do what seems to be working for many of my friends and bum cigarettes rather than purchase them. I’ll be eating more spinach salads too.
And, I’ll steer clear of medical websites- right after I get online to figure out what‘s wrong with my left knee cap.
copyright Pontchartrain Pres 2010
