One of the first birthday parties my son Jacob went to was for a little British boy who was living near us in Connecticut. One of the highlights of Josh’s party was that we played “Pass the Parcel.”
Pass the Parcel is the British non-violent equivalent of Musical Chairs. There was a large lumpy parcel, wrapped loosely in newspaper – inside was a treasure. Music was played, and the parcel was passed from hand to hand until the music stopped. When it did, whoever held the parcel removed a layer of wrapping, and the music started again. Ultimately a wonderful treasure I have long since forgotten was revealed and given to the kid who removed the last bit of wrapping on the parcel.
I quickly realized that Pass the Parcel had Musical Chairs beat. I am also sure that Vickie K would agree. She was the poor birthday girl I propelled across the room at her 6th birthday party when I snagged the last remaining chair when the music stopped. I wonder why I wasn’t invited to her 7th birthday party.
But actually, today I realized that I don’t like Pass the Parcel after all. You see, today I realized that I AM the bloomin’ parcel.
Some of you may know that I have been a bit under the weather lately. I have Crohn’s Disease, which sucks. Things in my gut have been a little too active lately. Which in turn makes me rather inactive, as in sleepy. Naturally, being the smart girl that I am, I called my doctor. Doctors. I have a lot of them.
In the past two months I have visited my internist, who passed the parcel to my gastroenterologist.
I visited my gastroenterologist who passed the parcel to my urologist and passed the parcel to a radiologist (who I assumed was connected to the barely visible face behind the window of the radiology lab I was in).
The gastroenterologist read the report from the previous parcel holder and passed the parcel again. This time to my gynecologist.
I must admit that being passed once again was once too much for me. I lost it. I burst into tears, wondering if these doctors have any clue what it is like to be a patient. If they have any clue what it is like to be a goddamn parcel, passed from latexed gloved-hand to latexed gloved-hand. I don’t think they do.
So tonight I am rethinking my health care options. And I see changes in my future.
Because I know one doctor I can go to who will look at my entire body. He will press my abdomen, my lumpy bits. He will look at my teeth, my eyes, my nether regions. He will look into my eyes, clip my toenails and check all the areas that need attention. He will not send me to other specialists because he specializes in everything. He will not send me out for tests because he knows how to do them and will do them right there in his office. All I have to do is not bite him.
Yup, next time around, I’m going to my vet for my healthcare.
My dog, Cooper is nearly 105 years old. He is declining, but hey, he is 105 years old! But no matter what is wrong with him, we take him to the same place, and Dr. C. looks at him, figures out what is wrong with Coops, prescribes the medicine, fills the bottles with pills, and sends us all on our way. When the time comes, the vet will give Cooper a peaceful end.
So yeah. Next time I’m sick, I’m going to the vet. I won’t even have to say a word.