In my latest adventures, I have been in search of some supplemental work to my current job of “bed-ucating” my customers by selling organic, mattresses. I need to become rich, ASAP. I’ve gone to interviews to be a nanny, I’ve checked out the local pop shop that was hiring a part-time soda stocker, and I’ve considered submitting my works to a publisher to see if I can become a millionaire by tomorrow morning. I need something where I can use as additional income, on my own terms. As was inspired by my aunt and confirmed by a friend: What better than substitute teaching!? You basically rent yourself out to the County School District for a day, and you only have to pick up jobs on the days you’re free. Then you dress up like a school-teacher-in-training and trot into a school to teach who knows what, to who knows who, for who knows how long! I think it sounds exciting, daring, and full of blog-potential, and it came highly recommended by my aunt Hannah who did the very same thing, at my very same age for years; since I love me a good thrill, and am hoping to advance my vocabulary, I put in my application.
The grueling 8-month application process and orientation complete, my last step was to get a PHYSICAL and TB Test at a DOCTOR’s office. Now, for those of you who may not know me…I haven’t been to a real doctor in awhile. I went to one in France for my lip, and there have been some specialist visits here and there. But for the most part, my hoity, toity New Hampshire hippy-dippy alternative ways have thoroughly ingrained in me a very strong dislike for the medical field as a whole. Especially doctors. The reason for this is personal, what can a doctor tell me about my body that I cannot figure out for myself?
People think I am crazy when I say this, but I mean it truly. I am an extremely AWARE individual of how I am thinking, feeling, and acting. I can’t always be conscientious enough to alter these states of being, but I’m at least always in touch with what is going on in my inner and outer workings.
That being said, if I DO have a problem, I don’t give it too much attention because it’s not likely something critical or serious. Muscle spasms or pains? Not enough bananas, not enough water, too many sprints around the lake at 5 in the morning. Acne? Too many grains, gorging on popcorn, too much sugar. Exhaustion? Not a healthy balance, out of routine, not enough raw foods. The list goes on, and I won’t bore you with my medical history, but I will say that for the most part:
1. I don’t have any problems that cannot be fixed on my own through via diet and healthy lifestyle changes.
2. I don’t ever agree with a magic pill, which appears to be all that doctor’s prescribe following a diagnosis.
3. I don’t like to take advice in the first place. A.k.a. I’m stubborn. And picky.
I do however like to ask questions. A lot of questions. I interviewed my new (and super cool) doctor up and down, and asked a bunch of questions. Secretly, I was sort of trying to test her, her knowledge, and how intellectually she engaged in conversations with me. Consequently, she asked me a lot of questions too. I guessed her astrological sign because she reminded me of my cool friend, Toni, and I wished we could become friends, but alas…she’s the Doc and I’m the patient so we’re probably not going to hang out, do yoga, grill veggie kabobs, and drink mimosas by the pool on a Sunday. She did however encourage me in achieving my hopes and dreams, and may have even secretly cut me a break since I don’t have insurance. It was all going fine and swell, and although I was sweating profusely under the rude interrogator fluorescent lighting, my blood pressure and pulse were all tip-top.
Then came the moment I was dreading more than any moment I’ve dreaded in probably the entire week….the TB test. I hate needles. Ok, let me rephrase that: I abhor needles. My first ever visit to the gynecologist resulted in me passing out because they took a tiny vial of blood to test my whosey-whatsit levels. I also passed out while heroically trying to be a blood donor, and several years later, while trying to heroically stand next to a friend who was a blood donor. I was never cut out to sport track marks, that’s for sure.
However, I have had at least ONE incidence having blood drawn or needles stabbed into me in which I’ve remained calm and not toppled. So, I was sure, a tiny little needle with a tiny little poison under my skin should be no big deal. That is, until I saw the TB bubble. The blob under my skin made me feel lightheaded and nauseous. I had to get outta there as quick as could be. The nurse asked if I was alright, and when I quickly nodded my head, she shooed me to the front with my paperwork. The woman in front of me in line was taking her time looking through her iPhone for the perfect day for her next appointment. “No, can’t make Wednesday, that’s my manicure. Hmm…August 4th would work but I have to check and see when my dog’s getting shampooed, and well, ok, I suppose I could do it after my manicure. Let’s see, that will take about one hour, then give me an hour to grab a bite to eat, pick up the kids, drop them off with the babysitter…Ok, how’s three p.m.?” I was becoming whiter and whiter and knew for sure I was about to go down. The sounds blurring together in that classic, predictable way. The colors and lights blending and then… I come to. I’m sitting on the ground (better than the last time when I toppled face first on the floor) and my head is between my knees. I must be getting good at this passing out business, this time I got myself in a humble position before blacking out. The nurses gave me a juice (which I quickly checked to ensure it was organic and not chalk full of high-fructose corn syrup, like they give you after you donate a pint of blood, along with a slice of pizza of course) and then I took a few sips, still roasting like a pig and feeling like I might go again at any second. I had to lay down (yes, me, a 27-year old grown woman) in the patient waiting room until I could muster the strength to update my Facebook status, write a check, and get the heck outta there.
“I bet that made you feel cool.” My boss said, when she asked about the giant bandage I dare not take off my arm, for fear of seeing what is underneath.
Oh, ya, I feel totally cool.