Everything I Like Causes Cancer

Alright, first things first: I am not dying (yet). I do not have a brain tumor or lymphoma. What I have, according to the experts, is a staph infection. On my head. When I asked how in the holy hell this happens I was told that something as simple as a tiny cut or a wonky hair follicle can cause it. I’ve decided I’m going to tell anyone who asks that I got it from a swirly Whiskeymarie gave me in scary bathroom in March. Implausible? SURE! But certainly more entertaining than an ingrown hair.

While I was all jokey-jokey about it yesterday (What? Me? Using humor as a defense mechanism? Inconceivable!), I was pretty scared when I left for the doctor’s office. Given that the majority of your comments on yesterday’s post were adamant that I get my ass to a doctor, STAT, I think you were, too. (I love you for this, by the way. Special thanks to the anonymous spammer who recommended guaranteed cheap Viagra from India. Very helpful, spammer, very helpful indeed.)

Now, even though I make melodramatic jokes on this blog and within my circle of friends, I do not make stupid-ass jokes when interacting with professional people who don’t know and understand me. This is to say that I did not made jokes at the doctor’s office about brain tumors and aneurysms. So when my doctor took my hand and asked me to look him in the eye during the exam? Well, my terror level immediately elevated to RED! And then, very seriously, he said to me, “Lymphoma isn’t painful; staph is. I’m pretty sure this is staph.”

Have I mentioned before that my primary care doctor is odd? He’s a tiny Pentecostal Japanese man and, as if that weren't an odd enough combination, he is also easily embarrassed. The first time I saw him he did a complete physical which, of course, involved the dreaded backless paper gown. Outside the ob/gyn or proctologist, you are usually instructed to leave your unders on. But I don’t wear unders. During that first exam he repeatedly tried to tuck the paper gown into the top of my non-existent unders. I finally had to explain that there were no unders there for the tucking which made his face immediately turn red. I laughed and told him it was no big deal and didn’t bother me but it was clear that it bothered him. My first clue was his obvious discomfort and the fact that he said it did.

Anyways, after he was done scaring the crap out of me yesterday, he sent me to the lab for more tests. He wants to check my antibodies and rule out mono since I’ve been sick so many times already this fall. Have I told you I HATE needles? I hate needles. And this will make the second time I’ve been in the lab to have blood drawn in like a month. The lab tech remembered me from the last time. She remembered me suggesting the hospital house monkeys in the yard outside the lab's windows so patients would have something funny to look at while they are being stabbed and having their life-blood sucked out of them, one small vial at a time. (Okay, maybe I DO make stupid-ass jokes with professional people who don’t know me. Shut it.)

The bottom line of all this is that I am going to live another day. Thanks so much for your concern and offers of assistance. Son of A Thomas even offered to come over and play doctor. Now that I think about it, there is one particulary troublesome lab test my doctor requested that I haven’t yet completed . . .

SOAT? Still want to come over and help? I'll take care of "production" if you'll handle collection and packaging.

One last thing . . . you’re all a crass bunch of sick mother effers for calling dibs on my stuff and requesting an open casket so you can play grabsies with my corpse. I love you.