Six months ago, I had some outpatient surgery. All went well until four days later, when my bladder stopped working due to the side effects of the anesthesia. I didn’t know that’s what was going on at the time, all I knew was that I was in massive amounts of pain. Two visits to the ER later (evidently the pretty docs at the ER had a hard time figuring it out too), the problem was taken care of. I was ordered to follow up with my primary care doc. Typical for him, he orders me to see a urologist for a follow-up, “just to be sure.” And typical as well, the first appointment available for the urologist that he recommended is sometime after I’ll be eligible for Medicare.
So, it’s off to another urologist who does have an appointment available, a neighbor of a friend of mine. I’ve seen this guy at social events and around town, but never had a conversation with him socially. Frankly, I was surprised he knew that I was friends with his neighbor, he was quite chatty with me. He did a thorough exam, said all was well, and it seemed to be a one-time incident chalked up to anesthesia medication.
And then he decided to not mind his own business. “Hey, listen, you should get a personal trainer and work out a couple times a week. You’re fat and weak. ”
Duh. I know. I had seen my primary care doc and endocrinologist for the past six weeks trying to figure out what was going on and this guy seems to have a pat solution. Ahh, to be one of those stay-at-home wives with nothing to worry about than a bit too much cellulite and having time to spend all morning at the gym fretting over the size of my thighs. It’s more complicated than that, frat-boy.
He takes another glance at the form I filled out in the waiting room. “Wait. Hemochromatosis? Who has that?” he asks.
Oh boy, and he’s Chief of Staff at the local hospital? No wonder I go out of town for medical care now. He then told me a long boring story about when he was in medical school during the last century about he got the question right on a quiz, and the answer was “hemochromatosis.” I think it was the first time he actually had met someone who had it. He told me at least twice it’s called “bronze diabetes,” as if I didn’t know that. Mind your own specialty, I was thinking, because clearly you don’t know a thing about hemochromatosis.
Or endocrinology. Or rheumatology. Or hepatology. Had I taken his advice seriously and had the time, money and energy to work with a personal trainer twice a week, I would be crippled by now. I’ll have to make a note to tell him that at the next social event.
On second thought, why would I even bother to talk to someone who has such a disdain for fat chicks, or smart ones?