Sod the mommy bloggers, what this world needs is more skinny people talking about weight loss. Bee-ew-fort, my imaginary friend, or the extra layer of lipids that keeps me cosy at night, has manifested himself a real friend. Of course, the odd lump appears on my body during the time the wife is out of state for a conference, so I have no choice but to show my lump to a friend for a second opinion late last night.
Not one to beat about the bush, especially if it means I can procrastinate on some other front, I trekked off to the doctor today. I always try to think myself out of going – worried that the MD won’t be able to find anything and diagnose hypochondria. But the side of me that thinks there’s some wonder pill that can cure the evil that lurks within which will suddenly explain all the bad things that I feel always prevails and I get to see a quack who never really unravels the constricted knots of my soul.
Between weigh-in and interview, I was struck by the beauty of a young woman in the hallway of the doctors’ practice. She seemed so young and bright-eyed, and out of place in the establishment that I associate with unhealthy looking people stuffed into androgynous pastel colored nurse costumes. I was shuffled into a side room, told that I had the blood pressure of a teenager and asked some questions by the nurse. Before I even had time to ask whether it was good or bad to have the blood pressure of a teenager when you’re approaching the imaginary friend and multiple mid-life crisis stage of your life, she whisked out. I know some very unhealthy teenagers, I thought to myself as I sat on the bed with my t-shirt off.
Minutes passed and the familiar feeling that doctors never apologize for making you wait started to circulate in my head. I put my t-shirt back on. I lay down for a nap.
The stunning woman from the corridor walked in and introduced herself, and then asked to see my lump. She prodded it, moved it about, manipulated it and asked the same questions as the first interrogator. It really annoys me when the police do that to people – asking the same questions over and over again. Or the Indian woman who calls me in my professional capacity and doesn’t get the answer she wants, only to make small talk and then repose the same question rephrased a few minutes later. Now I just hang up when she calls.
I forgave the doctor for the repetition, in addition to the time she had made me wait, and looked off into space as she checked if there were a symmetrical lump on the other side. There wasn’t. She poked around my lymph nodes just because they were there. She encouraged me to get a measure of my lump so that I could track its growth and said that I would be fine. I left, at once relieved, and also saddened that there was no silver bullet that could be fired into me to treat my anger and destructive behavior. (Such as baking turkey at 2am when the kids will need me in 4 hours time).
Returning to a full house, I forgot about my ailment, and only later started to research a fourth opinion on the internet. Rather like the Indian caller, I looked again and again for the answer I wanted, but didn’t find it.
Looks like I’ll be fine, though I don’t advise looking up lipoma surgery on youtube lest you descend into a downward spiral of cyst rupturing videos that soon become transfixing, as the suspense builds until something pops, explodes or oozes. It seems my excess fat has ganged up personified as a lipoma and is demanding to be taken seriously – Bee-ew-fort has a friend who hangs around my upper west side. I’ll call him Lance.
In three weeks I have lost 1.5 lbs of body fat, and gained 0.5 pounds of muscle. I wonder what Lance weighs in at.