The moment I mention health concerns in this blog, my loyal readers (many of whom are old friends) start pinging me with concern. It's okay. My BP is nice and on the low side of normal, I'm at a healthy weight and getting healthier, my cholesterol is getting checked as we speak, and - bonus - I don't have cancer.
No, the health issues of which I speak are of the merely-being-in-a-medical-setting variety. I hate hate hate hospitals, doctors' offices, exam rooms, lab coats, needles, surgical gloves and scrubs. Never had a problem with doctors all my life. Funny how being enmeshed in the cancer culture for three years while your wife and father are poked and prodded, stuck, bled, infused, irradiated and otherwise defiled puts a negative spin on things. While it's not a full-on medical phobia, I can say that sitting in two different exam rooms in the last week had me extremely uncomfortable and on-edge.
And the crux of the matter is really that in both exams, I had an acute symptom I needed addressed, and in both cases, I left with no answers. I could have saved the money and spared my dignity staying home and be no worse for the not-knowing. In the first exam, I at least got my ear canal irrigated and some greasy, obnoxious ear drops to try to kill the infection.
So that's what the cryptic note yesterday was about. He's okay, folks. Just a bit grumpy about the medical profession (and Colin, Ann, Jason and Beth, I know you know what I'm talking about). Which is just swell, as now that I'm cruising into midlife, the medical profession and I are statistically going to be seeing more of each other.