This morning, I had my planned 6-month review with Dr. Foie Gras. I had seen the doctor last month when he performed my annual upper scope, when I get to experience the glory of sedation. Since I slept through that visit, it wasn’t a great time for us to catch up.
Today I was fully alert, and I was blessed with both the doctor and a wonderful student (fellow? resident? I don’t know for sure, but we’ll call him Dr. F.G. Wannabe) who was calm and self-assured. His questions were spot on and he inspired confidence. J. liked him because he looked to her for her input.
We addressed a number of issues, including the fact that Dr. F.G.’s young son will soon be crawling. Oh yes, and my recent liver unhappiness, which seems to be resolving without intervention and causes him no concern. I pointed out the significant weight loss since the last appointment, a good reminder that no one else scrutinizes my weight as much as I do.
We also spoke of the findings of his recent scope, which were largely unremarkable. Nonetheless, he decided there was a need for a follow up next month. Over the past several years, each scope has revealed a pancreatic rest. Let me tell you my layperson’s understanding of what this is, in case you don’t know. Some wayward cells from my pancreas have taken up residence in my stomach, where they’ve been resting for some time now, and although their appearance is unchanged, the doctor wants an internal ultrasound and biopsy done “just to be sure”. My low level of platelets will necessitate a platelet transfusion immediately prior to the procedure, so I don’t bleed excessively from the little snip snip. If you have any platelets to spare, I could use them January 24. I lost a few nights’ sleep over this procedure when I first booked it, but Dr. F.G.’s explanation has reassured me.
At some point in the visit, Dr. Wannabe completed a manual exam, which included his fondling my one-of-a-kind spleen. The doctor was poking around, trying to figure out how my organs were doing that day, and I started whining. “Ouch, that hurts!” I said. He responded, “It shouldn’t hurt there.”
What could be more patronizing? A doctor I’ve never met before tells me that my tender abdomen shouldn’t hurt? It’s not his body; how would he know? But then I thought about it for a minute. My abdomen wasn’t the only thing that was hurting; the rest of my body was sore too.
Then I had an insight. I had forgotten, as the doctor was manipulating my belly, that I’d attended a killer Pilates class the day prior. Every week, I undergo 60 minutes of torture. I never know which body parts are going to hurt the next day. The teacher, who has a striking likeness to Mr. Rogers, except for the sadistic streak, upped the ante yesterday because the gym will be closed next week. Maybe he was preemptively preparing us for our overindulgence over the holiday.
Turns out the wise doctor was right: my pain had nothing to do with his manual exam. Needless to say, I skipped my planned workout today. God forbid I should strain my abdomen any more than I already have.