Caped Crusader Seeks Sewing Ability

There are days where I occasionally wish I could sew.

Nothing fancy, just a super fabulous embroidered cape that majestically blows in the wind, drapes perfectly about me while accenting all the right curves, and has the words, "Sexiest Medical Guinea Pig In The Known Multiverse" written in, oh, perhaps sapphire blue piping. Yes. That would be swell.

This week I saw my family doctor, the one I have nicknamed Hawk Eye, not from the TV show M.A.S.H. but because he's got piercing blue eyes that should never ever be looking at me from between my spread legs, but they were a few days ago.

He is, along with my husband's shrink, the Obi Wan of my life. Of all the medical oddities that I seem to offer up, he is the one doctor that's said, "Hey, uh, no one seems to be keeping track of all of these things except YOU. What gives?" My response was a sort of glum helplessness, I confess. That conversation took place a year ago. I have since kicked a doctors ass or three, gotten them to change my medications, been through physical therapy yet again, been sent to more specialists, and finally gotten something resembling a diagnosis about what in the bloody hell is wrong with me.

The diagnosis came bundled with an answer, some hope, the realization that there is no magical cure or even easy help, and alas, alas, a request that I see a full contingency of MORE specialists. For some reason, they all seem to be calling this morning. I write stuff down, ask questions, and hope we can pay for all this crap...

Perhaps I should also embroider a half full glass on my cape. Note to self. Think about it. Make sure it doesn't look like a freaking milk commercial. Check.

Last year, when Hawk Eye found out I didn't have a common doctor tracking all this craziness, he volunteered immediately. I immediately realized he was devastatingly attractive with those super intense blue eyes. Clark Kent in a white doctor robe, try not to drool, self! He also pointed out that I was due to have my yearly pap smear and I went beet red and requested a female doc do that, uh thanks. I blush from the chest up, and look like a splotchy red and white leopard. Awesome.(rolls eyes) He didn't blush but said fine, ok, scheduled that, and then it turned out to be a RN who did the exam and out of some sort of snafu, she did the yearly full exam at that time... I didn't realize that till she was halfway through asking me questions.

Here's me: "What does that have to do with my cooter, exactly, miss?"
Registered Nurse: "Your what now?"

I have a way with words. What can I say.

The past year has been bonkers. For someone who doesn't have a job, finding spare time seems like a simple enough thing to do, right? Make another appointment with Hawk Eye, get him caught up to speed, and then... what then? Hell, I don't know.

The problem is there isn't spare time. There is very simply Time, and a lot of it was passed just holding my head above water and trying to pass as a normal human. Be a good mother. Help child with homework. Be a good wife. Help husband with housework. Be a good patient. Help doctors fix my broken ass. Be a good friend. Help friends with heartaches. Be a good sister/daughter/aunt/daughter-in-law/niece, what have you. Help family with love.

Above and beyond all else, be a good self. Help self with self.

That really was the tricky one. It's hard to fix something when you don't know what is broken. The list of therapies and medications and research and exercise and reactions and withdrawals and appointments and budgeting just to do that is nothing short of mind boggling. And as one of my dear friends who also takes Zanaflex has pointed out quite astutely, "I spend a lot of time walking into doorways." That one medication alone made the last year a Swiss cheese riddled blur. I remember little, and most of what I do remember seemed frantic- there were moments of clarity in the small sections of pain and medication being balanced enough for me to stick my head up and gulp air.

I've lost two friends this past year. They didn't die. Our friendships did. That hurts, but my feeling about it is the same as I've always felt about losing anyone in my life: it's their loss. If they don't realize it's a loss, all the better that they're gone. Medicated, pained, confused, and gasping for air and clarity, I'm still awesome. I am incredibly patient with other people's bullshit, so much so that I doubt they realize how patient I am or what a pain in the ass they actually are. I ask for nothing less in return, and I get it. Those two friends did me favors by making me feel the urge to more solidly reconnect with the wonderful friendships I already have, and have had long before they came along. Bah. *blinks* Oddly enough, I've made more new friends this year than I've lost, so that's a thought. Hmm. Food for thought, later. In the meantime, losing both friends was traumatic and both were quietly vicious about it in their own ways. I don't need shit like that in my life, ever. Good riddance.

Back to blue eyed doctor boy, *cough* I mean, Hawk Eye, very respectable doc, yes yes. I finally got another appointment with him this past week. It wasn't for lack of trying. I've called the office, been on hold, been disconnected, made appointments and had something come up, made appointments and rescheduled because of an upcoming appointment with a different specialist who might offer me info I may be able to give to him. I've gone in with orders from the pain specialists to have various testing done, kind of important stuff involving a little organ called the heart, stood there at the counter (harder to be disconnected) and was told all their computers shut down. I mean, it's nearly laughable. Nearly.

Eventually it was time for my yearly pap smear again and damn it all if that wasn't the time that darling Hawk Eye had a time slot open. Geeeeez. Ok. Fine. One of the specialists wants me to be tested for endometriosis by a gynecologist, which he isn't, so maybe I could get out of that part.. of... the...exam.... No, huh?
*shoulders fall, looks at floor*
Oh dear. Nothing for it, then.

He did it well, for the record.

Ack.

It's not that I'm a prude, no long time reader knows THAT, but I don't want any man looking up at me from between my legs unless he's my husband. I ESPECIALLY do not want a ridiculously good looking man with piercing blue eyes looking up at me while my feet are in stirrups and I'm wearing a stupid paper gown.

Maybe if I could have worn my theoretical cape....
Maybe.

At any rate, it's over and done, and now I'm being sent to the hospital to have ultrasounds of my uterus, involving some sort of microscopic camera traversing the soft dark recesses of my lady parts, and I don't even know if the person performing these things will be good looking! I mean, uh, men! I don't know if they will be men!

*ahem*

Later next week I get to see if my retinas will be detaching any time soon. Skippy!

You can see how these appointments would clearly be better if I could go in, making a sweeping entrance with my majestic cape, right? SWOOSH! I'm here for my.... (dramatic pause) ...appointment!

They say it'll be awhile before I get to the scariest appointment thus far, which is with the cardiologist.

I gotta learn how to sew.

(sighs) If only I were evil. Then I could just gather sewing minions to do my bidding. No one said the life of a super hero would be easy.

With all the tests, I expect nothing good, honestly. I'm not being pessimistic, just realistic. The condition I have has no cure. The additional tests are to gauge the possible side effects of the condition, and to have a base point to check back on for the rest...of...my...life.

Sobering, no?
Like I said, I clearly need a flashy cape.

The good that can come out of all of this is that my testing and my experience will just add to the research out there, and maybe someday there WILL be a cure. It may not be in my lifetime, but maybe my sons. The condition is genetic.

When the time comes, I shall have to teach him how to sew as well. He's going to have to come up with his own slogan. "Sexiest Medical Guinea Pig In The Known Multiverse" is already taken, yo. Consolation prize: no one will have to look at his cooter.