Time to Say Goodbyes

 

 

Even, or especially, Cookie Monster is sad to see me go.

Half a suitcase packed.  Laundry still to do.

I'll make it.

I've said goodbye to the writer/teachers who encouraged me through the Denver Writing Project's summer institute, to my Spanish tutor, to my beautiful cousins, my mom, my dance friends, my yoga studio...

 

It will be hard to leave behind my bed.  And my Dad.  And even that skinny black cat that thinks my stomach is a good place to take a nap.

Once Every 10 Years

Reader Warning:  the following is a blog post about colonoscopies.  I have not decided to only write about medical procedures involving the most private areas of our bodies, but have unexpectedly come upon these occasions in very close proximity in time.  So.  Here goes.

Imagine this--

you enter the fifth floor, the gastroenterology ward.  The nurse takes your father, and hands you a restaurant pager, set to blink red lights at you when they have successfully excavated his colon.  You set up your computer at the table in the corner since they told you to plan on two hours, and people around you watch, complain about not having eaten all day, tell their husbands to talk quieter, and make pooper jokes.  That man's ham and cheese melt smells amazing, and he looks around guiltily as he takes another bite.  An hour later, the pager buzzes its UFO lights at you, and you are escorted to the back, where an assortment of cordoned off patients lay farting in recovery.  The doctor gives a read-aloud version of the procedure, complete with pictures.  All is well, shake your hand.  When you get home, you have to recount all of it to your father because those drugs work pretty good, and he doesn't remember a stinking thing.

Thankfully, you only have to do this once every 10 years.  

You too, Phil.

To-Do List, Pre-Colombia

Travel Itinerary:  Friday mid-day leave for Colombia...via Chicago.  Spend the days between appointment with consulate and receipt of visa dancing salsa and touring Chicago.

Itinerario de Viaje: el viernes, mediodía, salga para Colombia...vía Chicago.  Pasaré los días entre la cita con el consulado y el recibido de mi visa bailando salsa y pasando por la ciudad de Chicago.

(Those of you who know Chicago, I am collecting must do/see/eats in the comment section below.)




To-Dos:
Buy first dress suit of my life.
Dance.
Clean ungodly mess of a room and a little red car.
Dance.
Print contracts, letters of rec, all official documents.
Dance.
Launder every soakable cloth in my possession.
Yoga.
Pack dance and yoga clothes.  (God bless uniforms.)
Hide things around Dad's apartment for kicks.
...
Say goodbye.



Que Haceres:
Comprar primer sastre de mi vida.
Bailar. 
Limpiar el quilombo en mi cuarto y carro.
Bailar.
Imprimir contratos, cartas de recommendación, todos los documentos oficiales.
Bailar.
Lavar cada tela lavable en mi posesión.
Hacer yoga.
Empacar ropa de baile y de yoga.  (Me encanta el concepto de los uniformes.)
Esconder cositas por el apartamento de mi papá, para divertirme.
...
Despedirme. 

Dear Non-Gynecologists

Dear Urgent Care Doctor who saw me this morning,

If you are uncomfortable with vaginas, you should not give vaginal exams.  Should you be required to give vaginal exams, you should not assume that, I, who have a vagina, am uncomfortable with them as well.

I am familiar with the fact that menstruation results in discharge, or, blood, "if you will."  Yes, I will.  It is blood.  Every month.  For the last twelve years.  I am quite confident that I know this is normal, and I am unconcerned that you, a doctor, would have seen blood at some time during your practice.  Therefore, we may conclude, that touching such a red-type discharge would not phase you.

When you tell me, after every touch or swab, at neither of which have I flinched, to "hang in there," and that I am "doing a good job," I have to wonder how many children you have had to talk through vaginal exams also.  Or perhaps you work with horses?

If it were so brave to go to the doctor unaccompanied, I would gladly send my vagina by itself, lessening your discomfort, and certainly mine.  As it has yet to appreciate full autonomy, alas, I must also attend.  Be assured that, as I look up at the dots in your ceiling, that you have probably never seen, I am imagining myself at all of the other tasks I would rather spend my time doing.  I hope, however, that you, as you peer through your newfangled, warm plastic, self-lighting speculum, are not imagining the same.  I hope that you are carefully observing and quick-checking your mental reference, and that I will promptly be diagnosed and shooed out the door with some pills and/or a cream.  I would rather not wait twenty minutes, leaking your cold goo, a discharge with which I am slightly less familiar, and staring at the specks in your tile, which you have probably never seen.

If we should meet again, I will not be staying for the examination.  Here is my hand, the only thing you seem quite comfortable touching, and my nod and smile to make you feel better about your job, and here are my flip flops smacking against your hallway floor.  On my way out, I will not check in with the front desk, I did that over an hour ago, and they have had plenty of time to photo copy my license and key in a few numbers.  Next visit, I will send you a bill for wasting my time.

Very sincerely,

Your first patient of the day.