If you’re hap-pee and you know it…

I’m sitting in an (a? an? Who even knows) urologist office. A urologist. I’m 38.

Hi. I’m Betsy Pee-rish. No. Betsy Wetsy. No. Betsy Parrish. I’m new here.

“Hi Betsy.”

How did I get here? When did this happen? I thought I had all of this under control. What a slippery slope…

I’m called to the back. Another waiting room. 35 mixed-matched chairs of navy, burgundy, and flesh colored pleather. Because pleather isn’t absorbent, I suppose, and can easily be wiped off with a Clorox wipe.  A wall of doors marked man/woman/family/whateveryouclaim screams at me. I’m passed an adorable plastic cup and told nothing. I should know what this passing of the baton means already as I walked in the door clearly marked urologist this morning. Hesitant glances fly all over this holding cell. Don’t make eye contact don’t make eye contact don’t make eye contact I’ll get stage fright and then what? As I open the door to go in, I know they all know what’s about to go down. Or come out. Privacy, where art thou? Pride, I’ll pick you back up when I leave this place.

Maybe.  As long as I don’t sneeze or have a fit of giggles first.

I don’t even want to touch a thing behind door number 1. Would it be appropriate to ask the nurse for some rubber gloves? Or a bottle of Lysol to do a spray down? The small aluminum door between me and the rest of the world (or at least the tiny man behind the curtain a la Whiizzzard of Oz) is not sound proof. I can hear the cup bearers talking about their weekend shenanigans and their mother in laws and that there’s only ten more Mondays ’til Christmas.  I’d prefer a little chamber (pot) music instead.  WHAT IS THIS PLACE AND HOW DID I GET HERE???

(All of these too many details to tell you guys that I’mma gettin’ old.  I’ve always had the bladder the size of a squirrel’s, but it’s starting to wear out.  In case y’all wanted to know. )

After I’ve washed my hands with the vigor of a washing machine spin cycle on high, I exit and reenter the waiting room and find an empty naugahyde chair.  Still not making any eye contact and with my pride as flat as my bladder a pancake, I’m quickly greeted by a sweet little nurse that implores I stand on her scale.  Why the scale?  This is a bladder doctor!  Weight is not a thing here!!! And further, if you insist, do it before I had to empty my bladder so I could blame some of that number on that! Bye pride, forever. Fat and incontinent.  This is not the life I ordered.

And I feel I must interject here that just a short week prior to this precious appointment, my back went out and I was stooped like a grandma headed to a bingo match.  Just needed a pair of Koret pants and a banded, collared sweatshirt with a sweet little patchwork design on the front and a white pair of SAS shoes to complete the look.  Diagnosed with two bulging discs and one that’s degenerating, I was sent home with some steroids and “exercises.”  I type that in quotes as I want a small pause here for you to imagine me saying that like a Memaw, “Shuga, I’ll fix you some corned beef hash just as soon as I’m finished taking my eggsersizes.  This ole back of mines is acking up again.  It must be about to rain today or summin.”  This getting old stuff is ridiculous.

After the weigh-in, I’m escorted down the hall and y’all.  I thought the pictures on the backs of the doors at the Ob-Gyn office were sort of obscene.  THIS PLACE HAS ANATOMICALLY CORRECT “things” just sitting out on the top of a shelf here, on the nurses desk there, staring back at me in the tiny little room.  Full on public view. You’re not even asked for your ID to make sure you are legal before these come into view. I’M BLUSHING, and you know that takes a lot if you know me.  I wonder if they are trophies? or awards? or some sort of “urologist oscar?”  I mean, what do they do with these things?  Gosh I’m glad my kids aren’t with me.  This not-so-little old stooped over lady would be ‘shamed of myself for exposing them to such imagery, in 3D no less.

I was glad to get out of there.  I mean, the people were very nice and I saw lots of sweet little ole Mamaws and Pawpaws in the waiting room but I don’t belong here.  Yet.  Right??  I’ve decided next time I go (which will be soon, ha), I’m going to strike up a conversation with one of those Peepaws and ask them a thing or two:  how they feel about the upholstery on these chairs, the whole scale thing, and those 3D models.

And I may even ask if they know when Koret goes on sale down at the Belks.

So ’til next time, I gotta go.

Literally.

Author: dailyparrscription

Fun gal with a lot to say View all posts by dailyparrscription