I’ve reached the point where nothing surprises me any longer, which is good, because life keeps serving up gems.
Yesterday I gave up fighting a UTI using my mother’s remedy of Hiprex – which worked so long as I remembered to take it twice daily, but otherwise slid me backwards into razor blade territory – and headed to the doctor. The receptionist asked if it was a standard consultation and I replied that yes, yes it was, I just needed a prescription.
But it’s me we’re talking about. So it wasn’t just a standard consultation. Noooooo.
First I had to give a urine sample. “Mid-stream?” I nervously asked. Preferably, but fortunately any stream would do the trick.
I carried my precious vial back into the consultation room and the doctor waved a little paper thingy in it. Then he started squeaking “glucose! glucose!”
Apparently lots of glucose means possible diabetes. Oh yay.
So he pricked my finger with a pointy thing – ouch – and tested my blood.
So he stabbed a giant needle in my arm and extracted lots more blood.
And then he asked me lots of questions, some of which made me blush.
He also queried my stress levels. Yes, I am stressed, now that you mention it. No biggie, just my husband left me four months ago and the family home goes to auction on Saturday. (Ironically, it later transpired that Husband had randomly been to see the same doctor that morning and had a few blood tests of his own. Life is funny. I must entertain the doctor with the story on Friday when I go back for my results.)
The doctor agreed those things were quite stressful.
Then he punched my kidneys and asked me if it hurt. Being a hypochondriac, I’m a little nervous about over-exaggerating my pain levels, but the left punch did seem to hurt slightly more than the right punch.
I exited with an antibiotic prescription, paid the $90 consultation fee (fark!) and made an appointment to see the king’s ransom physician again on Friday.
Outside, I called my mum to wail about the unfairness of life and she had a bitch about how my ex-husband was to blame and damn him to hell. Too right.
Later, Mum called back and said Dad wanted to speak to me, which struck a little dread in my heart. Dad doesn’t often ask to speak to me on the phone.
It turns out he has some weird genetic thing called renal glycosuria, which spews lots of glucose into your body when you exercise too much or stress too much or something. Basically harmless.
So hopefully I have THAT, since my current focus is on exercising too much and stressing too much … an awesome combination that’s doing wonders for my abs.
But really, I just want a quiet life. Do you think that’s on the cards? Shouldn’t it be on the cards? But then, what would I blog about?
Song of the day: Peter Gabriel & Kate Bush “Don’t give up”