Sometimes I take it personally that I was born in the most miserable month of the year (based on my latitude). I might’ve even been the result of Valentine’s Day plans gone awry. Ick.
On Halloween, I became Oogie Boogie. I identify with his hatred for Christmas.
The cost wasn’t a barrier to getting on a seaplane to Vancouver, but an expired photo ID nearly held me back. I assume one needs to update their main piece of ID every five years so they don’t age out of their photo. Although now two years past expiry, my ID is still two years newer than my passport.
Cursory online research says it’s how one stays enrolled in the Medical Services Plan. However, it was not a problem when I ended up in the hospital last June. I’ve also had several doctor’s appointments since it expired, so I can only imagine I’m still enrolled in the Medical Services Plan. I don’t want to update my ID for three good reasons: it costs money, it takes time, and my photo is weirdly gorgeous.
That may be why the Harbour Air service agent made a small fuss. I pulled out my other IDs, including my recreation centre pass, to appease her. To my relief, the neighbouring agent took my side and ushered the first agent to print my boarding ticket.
Last Thursday, a doctor examined the results of my bloodwork. As expected, my high White Blood Cell count was just the harbinger of the cold that took me down two weeks ago. While I don’t have an explanation for all the weirdness going on in my body (e.g. clogged meibomian glands, Raynaud Syndrome, and general fragility), being told I don’t have an auto-immune disorder was good news.
“Of course, it’s good news!” the doctor responded.
I don’t think he was a fan of my apparent ambivalence.
Following this good news, he had me lie on the examination table to slice me up. I mean, this was a part of the appointment–I was also there to get a benign growth removed from under my left knee; however, I rode my bike to this appointment thinking the removal would be the equivalent of popping a zit. I wasn’t anticipating a 1″ incision requiring three stitches. Fortunately, the doctor froze the area, so I didn’t feel a thing during my 25-minute ride home.
Upon arrival, I realized the blood from the sutured incision soaked through the bandages AND my pants. The appointment was at 10am, and around 8pm, I rolled up my pajama pants, put my left foot on the coffee table and prodded around the incision. The roomie witnessed my idiocy and lectured me: “Don’t touch it!”
“BUT I STILL DON’T FEEL A THING. IT’S WEIRD.”
Continue reading “It’s *not* lupus.”
