Wednesday, April 25, 2018

wassup doc?

(Original unedited image via

As I sit here and write, I get an actual whiff of my underarms and it’s not good. That, Dear Reader, is what a drought will reduce you to. My current state of low-groomingness is clashing horribly with my year of GeYoShiTo.

I already told you about my dangerous desk experience. Well, we now take a look at all things medical.  

Towards the end of 2017, I decided I was tired of being tired. So, I booked an appointment with an Integrative Medicine Doctor. You know, one of those doctors who asks you how much lip balm you’re using to that they can test for toxicity and then breaks the news that not only should you no longer use lip balm, but you should move to a country where perfume and lip balm is banned. Frightening stuff for someone like me, who by the end of December pretty much had pure VAT69 running through her veins.

I don’t know about you, but whenever I go to a doctor, I make sure to shower and scrub myself to the endth degree. Not only that, but I like to be completely groomed, so I also shave whatever needs shaving. It was timeous really, that I had this appointment, because thanks to the drought I was starting to look rather feral.

I’m not sure what my rationale behind all this pre-appointment grooming is. After all, it’s hardly like he’s going to spot my unruly bikini line and think: Yup. There it is. The source of all her medical problems. 

The main reason for my visit was to ascertain whether I am going mad, whether we all are going mad, or whether I just have a bad case of persistent, looming oldness. I fear it’s a combination of the first and last. (My niece recently asked - in all innocence - if there were any side effects of perimenopause. Poor thing had to sit through my harrowing account of sixty-seven symptoms and how most are only treatable with whiskey, exercise, crying, talking to pets and unrealistic amounts of sleep.)

Anyway, before I saw the doctor, I had to fill out a seventeen million-page questionnaire, which I tried to answer honestly, but honestly, most of the questions just seemed unnervingly loaded. Questionnaires make me nervous because you have to “tell on” yourself. It also seems to give the questionnairing person a lot of ammunition for judging. 

As it is, it took me months to work up to making an appointment the doctor (coz, you know, lip balm, whiskey, judging and shit). Before I went, I made a list of my main concerns because I have a tendency to get stage fright when I’m in front of a doctor and forget what I’m really there for. Worse than that, I have a tendency to appear overly jolly, which is the complete opposite of how you want to seem when you’re going to a doctor in absolute desperation.

I was ushered into Dr Do Good’s office and he said, “You don’t mind if Johannes sits in on our appointment. He’s a medical student who’s work- shadowing me today”.  My heart sank.

I did mind. 

I minded because I could already feel the stage fright setting in. I minded because I knew that I was going to be DOUBLY jolly. 

I minded because “Johannes” was clearly in his prime and, I have no doubt, could not relate to anything associated with oldness and in particular with perimenopause. 

I minded because I knew I’d try to appear all healthy and “I-have-my-shit-togetherish” while simultaneously having to discuss how I’m actually bordering on alcoholism and falling apart. 

But mostly I minded because I couldn’t very well say I minded because Dr Do Good asked me RIGHT IN FRONT OF “Johannes” and it was too awkward for me to say “No! The little shit must leave”. 

Fuckety fuck.

Another twist in the tail is that I’d done some “research” on the Internet and decided that a testosterone implant would be the solution to all my problems. 

Energy. Tick.
Libido. Tick.
Lean muscle. Tick.
Less body fat. Tick.
Not being so bloody irritable. Not sure but worth a try. Also worth it for the less body fat part.

I felt that if there was only onedoctor present then I could persuade him sufficiently to do my bidding but now, with Johannes present he could hardly say, (despite my cunning persuasions) “Let’s give this testosterone thing a bash eh? What’s a bit of facial hair amongst friends?”

No, Dr Do Good had to do the right thing and actually tell me that my testosterone was fine (codeword: you actually just are a roundish, tired, type of person) and that what I needed was this-and-that vitamin and some progesterone. 

Vitamins?!?!?! WTF! In the absence of testosterone I was at least hoping for some kind of legal, medicinal cocaine and I knew I wasn’t going to get it from Vitamin fucking D3. 

Fuck that shit. 

I bought the vitamins. And the progesterone. (Though I did consider it a triumph that I managed to swing him from prescribing topical cream in favour of oral tablets. It’s drugs I’m after, not topically applied fuckery.)

For my efforts, I still feel tired all the time until it’s time for bed, then suddenly, my awake button switches on and is all like “Heeeeey! Waddup? What should we do?” I feel slightly better and ten million rand poorer for all the vitamins. 

But in the absence of hard drugs, that’s the best we can do.

The best we can do.

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