On a recent trip to Hawaii, we did this awesome bike ride down a mountain and one of the women in our group was a gastro-blah-blah-ologist, aka, stomach doctor. I felt a little distended from the plane ride the night before, and thought just maybe she was going to take one look at me and go, "Well, just by the looks of her, she clearly has an inflamed intestine, which could rupture at any moment. Thank God I brought a pocket knife and some Handi-Wipes." Luckily, that didn't happen. But like I said, doctors freak me out.
Of course it's unreasonable, I know that. I know too that one day something really will be wrong, and I'm going to feel like a total asshole for worrying about that bone spur on my hand. Until then though, I'll just continue to say the same little "let me be okay" prayer over and over, every time I go to see any man or woman whose name ends in an MD.
A couple of years ago, I was fortunate enough to get laser surgery on my eyes. Although the surgery was quick, there were many follow-up visits that always threw me into a panic. Yet, every time I went, my eyes got better and better. Never 20/20, but damn close, and a freakin' miracle for someone whose vision was -11. For those who don't know, that pretty much means I was like Mr. Magoo.
Anyway, this awesome doctor was always nice when I saw him. He knew my name before even looking at my chart, and complimented me on being so cheerful. I could finally see without my contacts though, why wouldn't I be happy? I had found a doctor that I actually enjoyed going to! As my eyes improved, I felt proud of myself, as though I had willed it so.
Flash forward a year and a half. After all the required visits, they told me to come back in a few months, which I added a good year on to. But when I showed up, they told me all was well, and that both eyes had actually improved even more. Hallelujah! I should come here more often.
I then had one final visit with the doc (a graduation visit, if you will), just to check my eyes one last time and make sure they were healthy. This time, he didn't remember my name off-hand, although he did tell me my freckles were cute from the sun. Is that awkward? Well, I don't care, because he loves me and I love him. Apparently my vision is now 20/20, he praised me on how well my eyes did considering the fact that I was so blind before. And then dilated my eyes. He did the standard stuff, and me, being me, I asked him to check for glaucoma since my 83-year-old grandmother has it and inevitably, I must as well. Nope, no glaucoma, I was on my way. I thanked him for giving me perfect vision, for helping me to see, and told him it was one of the best things I'd ever done.
I walked out, eyes dilated–blind again, for old times sake...
