Somehow you know if you’re going to the doctor, you’re going to be probed, prodded and generally humiliated in ways that could only come from some prisoner of war playbook. And that’s just answering the pre-appointment questionnaire before you ever show up. I recently had to make an appointment with a new doctor for the annual checkup on all the girl parts and plumbing, and, sure enough, here comes the dreaded questionnaire. But this time I was ready!
Question 11: When was your last exam? Okay, I answered that one. Question 12 wants me to check the box for either normal or abnormal. This seems like a trick question. How do I answer that one, because, at my age, what exactly is normal anymore? If I knew I was normal, wouldn’t I just stay home and spend my medical deductible on cheap scotch and expensive shoes instead of facing down this interrogation? I pleaded the fifth on that one, not going to incriminate myself there.
Question 23: Have you had a colonoscopy? Yes, it wasn’t fun, but yes. Question 24: When? I remember vividly it was July 2013 — a day that will live in infamy. Question 25: Where? … What? Seriously? They’re asking where?! … Uh, it’s a colonoscopy. I wrote down “Where you usually get them!” Hello. I mean, I don’t know where they get theirs, but there’s aren’t actually options, are there? These people are suppose to be doctors, right?
Since this doctor takes my insurance plan, I skipped the rest of the questions and turned in my form. Forty-eight minutes in a freezing exam room wearing a ridiculous paper gown and I’m good to go for another year. Except I have to get a mammogram. You know, just to double check that I have no sliver of dignity left in my body.
Then I look at the doctor’s orders for that procedure and at the bottom was the question: Is the patient pregnant at the time of this order? And my new doctor had answered yes!! YES?!!? What the absolute hell??! I added my own note that there was a pit in hell solidly frozen over if that was true and my doctor needed to be seriously examined herself by the medical board or an ophthalmologist or psychiatrist! Maybe all of them!
Meanwhile, I’ve decided that anything that might be wrong with me is probably better cured with cheap scotch and expensive shoes rather than another trip to the doctor!