Thursday, March 14, 2013


I'm certain my doctor thinks I'm a hypochondriac. It seems like whenever I'm sick, I wait a few days to come in to make sure I really am sick and not wasting his time. Of course, by the time I do go in,  I'm feeling better. Typical. So after all the exams, likings, and prodding, I'm fine.

Now, there's this new clinic, oh, but its not a clinic, we are being offered that would let us see doctors for free. OK. No more primary care provider.  Just treat the symptoms and not look for the underlying issues at hand.

Everyone complains they can't get in to see their doctors.  Oddly enough, I can always get in to see mine. Sure, I wait, sometimes for hours at a time, but eventually, I see him.

I'm waiting now to see him. I keep staring at the ground at the perfectly smooth deep cocoa colored feet inside of chocolate colored high heels in front of me. I have to wonder if the feet are covered in a sock or nylon, or if those feet belong to someone that just has really nice skin. Nonchalantly, I look up and cough. Confirmed. This lady has very nice skin. It has a very smooth texture to it.

Back to staring down, I notice my belly. Its full of various ripples like a weird canyon starting at my neck with rolling hills of boobs met by another rolling hill of belly met again by a rolling hill of a pooch formed from nine months of pregnancy.  Looking at the rest of my body, my legs and arms, I wonder why this belly is so round while the rest ceases to gain. I feel like I have my father's shape. That of a man who wooed every day, God knows hhow many miles, delivering mail. A man who was nothing but muscle with a belly bigger than a pregnant lady's.  This body, his body, is the one I have.

I cough more. Each time I do,  my left ovary aches. A cyst popped on that side earlier today. I was fortunate to be in bed when it did as it felt like it would have sent me to my knees if I were standing.

My mom calls. Twice. First time I send to voicemail. Second time I answer.  She asks if they found out what's wrong with me. What's wrong with me? Am I broken?  It sounds like an insult.

Nothing is wrong with me. I'm just sick. And waiting to be seen. Overhearing the ladies talking in the billing are and chatter behind the waiting room door.  I'm waiting to be seen. To be treated. Maybe to find out something is wrong. But now, I'm just waiting to be done so I can go to sleep.

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