The one where I write about personal medical conditions

I went to the doctor this morning. I biked there, in order to establish a facade of a regular exercise regimen. I figured whizzing up to the door on my bicycle would do the trick. My show, naturally, was cut short when I couldn’t find the bike rack. What kind of doctor’s office doesn’t display its bike rack in a visible place? It’s supposed to be a hub of good health, for Christ’s sake. They’ve got to appeal to the yuppies.

Eventually, I located the thing. I tied my bike to the flimsy rack, which, incidentally weighed less than my bicycle, entirely defeating its own purpose. At some point during my circle of the parking lot, I had caught the attention of a black and white dog. The dog began to bark at me. It followed me, whilst yapping it’s head off, into the doctors office. They asked me to leave my pet outside. I said I couldn’t because he didn’t belong to me. The receptionist and I spent the next fifteen minutes attempting to lure it out the door.

However, our efforts were futile. Finally, it’s owner emerged from the bathroom. He was a strapping young lad, and were he not as unkempt as his mangy animal, I would have been thrilled at the view of his chest offered by his V-neck. After his dog tracked sufficient mud into the exam room, I was called in to wait for my doctor.

My doctor is a great woman, but sometimes she gets on my nerves. She’s just too calm. It’s not natural. My first grievance was my birth control. I won’t subject you to the ins and outs. The second point of discussion was a weird cafe au lait spot that is growing. It’s not big enough to be of concern, but its growth has been fast enough that I noticed. That’s saying something, seeing as I notice very few things about my body. After discovering the growing spot, I reached a level of hypochondria where I began making up diseases for it.

Well, if it's not skin cancer, it must be reverse vitiligo.

Well, if it’s not skin cancer, it must be reverse vitiligo.

And the insufferable woman suggested it was nothing. I was incensed.

Actually, I was relieved.

Until she referred me to a dermatologist to get it checked out, because it was suspicious.

How we went from “nothing” to “suspicious” I’ll never know.

It also turns out that I haven’t received two very important vaccines, both of which are required of me before I go to college. Trouble is, both require two boosters in the next six months, meaning I won’t be immunized by the start of school…which is a problem.

And that, kids, is how I became a fat janitor with no joy in life.

And that, kids, is how I became a fat janitor with no joy in life.

There’s an easy way out of this: sign an affidavit stating that my parents don’t believe in vaccines and pretend like I’ve never had any. I have not yet written a post detailing how much and why I hate parents who don’t vaccinate their kids. I hate them more than team sports. I hate them more than vapid celebrities. And I hate them more than people who fool themselves into thinking a long distance relationship will work. I’m sorry if I offend a bunch of people, but parents who don’t vaccinate their kids not only display an astonishing lack of logic, but also a horrible ability to determine risk vs. benefit. If you think think that a tiny, unproven chance that your child might have an increased risk of cancer down the road trumps fatal illness that still runs rampant in third world countries, you need to get your priorities straight. Sure, it’s unlikely that a kid will contract meningitis anymore, but when non-vaccinated children are in a centralized area, you end up with outbreaks of diseases that shouldn’t even exist anymore, like the pertussis outbreak in the Bay Area. (I’ve been directly affected by it, even though I was vaccinated.) Given my opinions on this matter, it came as a surprise that I hadn’t been vaccinated for Hepatitis B or HPV.

So there was that. Then there was my knee. Not only do I have the skin of a 40 year old woman, I also have the joints. Because my weak-ass knee won’t hold up to more than a mile of running, I figured the doctor would suggest I wear a knee brace. Instead she suggested I see a physical therapist. Yay. I’m heading for a knee replacement surgery before the age of twenty-five.

But we’re not done yet. No, no. After three weeks with whooping cough, five days of antibiotics, and three more weeks of the same exact symptoms, I am still coughing my lungs out every time I drink a cold beverage or exercise. The doctor had no suggestions except for time. Thanks parents who don’t vaccinate their children.

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