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End of warranty blues

April 9, 2011

I’m having one of those days where if Gandhi even looked at me sideways, I would kick him in the nuts. Yes, I know he is dead. But I think my willingness to kick him in the nuts is the best way to express how I feel.

Growing old is supposed to be great. I am a feminist unfazed by body issues. I embraced my 40th birthday and have counted on things getting better and better for at least another ten years. And then I was subjected to a series of end-of-warranty medical examinations that sap my faith in the beauty of age.

I have to get a mammogram. I am only 43, but the fact that I have never been on the pill and my ovum have never been infiltrated by sperm means I have some kind of extra risk. Because I’m a lesbian, I get to have my boobs pressed in the titty-panini a full seven years early. And I’m not even a gold star.

And my doctor ordered a hemocult, which is the medical term for “smear some of your shit on a piece of cardboard for three days in a row and keep it in your fridge.” They do not make a ziplock bag thick enough for me to store fecal samples in my goddamned fridge. But I have to do this anyway, or she will order a colonoscopy, which is, of course, the medical term for shoving a video camera up your ass. Not because I am having any particular colorectal issues. Just because I am 43.

Had my eyes checked today and I don’t need bifocals. But he’s giving me another two years. And I get to see a specialist for a black hole at the back of my left eye which, if I understood correctly, is either nothing to worry about or my retina about to detach.

And that’s another thing that pisses me off. If you are going to refer me to a specialist, don’t fucking tell me that it’s probably okay. This will NOT stop me from having a goddamned anxiety attack- all it does it take away my right to make dramatic announcements about how my retina is about to detach. What the fuck is the point of having a problem with your retina if you can’t dramatically announce that it is about to detach?

Is it fair to blame all this on Humanity? Probably not. But I’m giving a point to the Apocalypse anyway, because Gandhi is not here for me to kick him in the nuts.

The Apocalypse: 28

Humanity: 21.5

  1. Age blows. But. . .(look at me all Miss Positive Pants) I had my first mammogram when I was twenty. So age really doesn’t have shit to do with shit. (Not the shit in your fridge anyway.)

    • Thank you. I feel younger now.

      And I really have to remember to drop that shit off at the lab tomorrow…

  2. I’m an 85-year-old, crotchety, Sinatra-listening cat lady on the inside. I hope my doctor never figures that out.

    • Don’t count on it, Sister. These people have scopes and probes for everything.

  3. Debbie permalink

    Sympathizing on the shit smear test. Went to the wrong hospital for my health check a few years ago and was introduced to “Dr. Chang’s Feces Receptical”. Seriously?? You put your name on the cure for cancer. You do not put your name on the cylindrical container in which people routinely save their own shit for testing.
    Headed to hospital with receptical in hand, covered by about a thousand pieces of tissue (to aid in both visual and mental denial). Nurse took it, laughed at me as she ripped off the tissue (at this point I regret washing it beforehand), and slapped in into the holding bin with about 60 other containers full of shit…..that is, 60 other “Dr. Chang’s Feces Recepticals”. Thanks Dr. Chang, for your immeasurable contribution to medicine.

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