Lash Out
I really love my G.P.
I paid a visit to my rock star general practitioner this week for my annual checkup and bloodwork scrutinization. We are at the 32-year mark together now in our doctor-patient relationship. Our visit always begins with a handshake (not during Covid) and a friendly chat beginning with him asking “What’s new?” My answer this year was “Well, I just watched the Netflix documentary The Plastic Detox, which I do not recommend unless you are willing to throw out your entire wardrobe and the entire contents of your kitchen utensil drawer.”
All of this is followed by the inevitable and expected posturing (by him) on why I need to double my dose of vitamin D. These brief but annual pep talks go something along the lines of “Let’s go! 2,000 I.U. is better than 1,000 I.U.!” and are part of his personal vendetta against cancer mortality. He has made it his mission in life, his thing. It will also be his legacy. I’m sure I am not the only patient of his who tells their other doctors, dentists, hairstylists, massage therapists, postal worker, and Amazon delivery driver all about his vitamin D double-dose platform. Luckily for him I find it (and him) endearing and would love to book him for a dietary supplement commercial. There will eventually be a personalized t-shirt, at the very least. (Leave your suggestions in the comments. I’m thinking something like, “If you’re not overdosing on vitamin D, you’re not doing it right.”)
To give you a sense of how wonderful and special this doctor-man is, when I gave birth to my 10-pound, 2-ounce baby boy at home in 1995, he came over to my house at 4:00 am at the summons of my midwife and literally sutured my ass back together under the light of every lamp in the house. After meticulously planning a home birth, the last thing a woman wants to do after birthing a baby is head to the hospital for an repair for a third-degree tearing of her perineum. Can you imagine the conversation I would have had with the ER nurses? “Hey - hi. I know you frown upon homebirths here in the state of Nebraska, but I did it anyway and my Scottish ancestry gave my baby a huge head which managed to make it through my birth canal, but my midwife doesn’t mess with third degree tearing, so would you mind?” That would have sucked.
After uttering the glorious words, “Your bloodwork looks beautiful,” he asked me how my annual preventative diagnostics are going. (I had breast cancer eight years ago). I reminded him that they aren’t until late September each year, and then I asked him to write me a referral for a colonoscopy. It’s not due until Spring of next year, but I’m feeling like sooner would be better than later. He wrote me the referral (I always like to give him something to do) and then the conversation turned serious. I began to recount my stye-story drama from last winter. I wrote about it here:
Why, Stye?
I had 20/20 vision until the age of 40 when one day I picked up my monthly issue of Vanity Fair and could no longer read their incredibly teeny-tiny custom Didot typeface. Following this seemingly overnight life change, I hustled myself over to Wholefoods and bought a pair of 1.25 readers. They have been working for me …
Along with almost everything else, gravity is affecting my eyelashes. On my right eyelid, the upper lashes are pointing south and literally poking my eyeball. I really think this is how I got the stye in the first place. Some days I walk around pushing my eyelashes up with my hand-sanitized fingertips. It must look like I’m fussing with a contact lens.
Dr. M loved the old wives-tale hard-boiled egg eye massage recommendation-story from my eye doctor - Dr. Roger - in Scotland. (Yes. I have an eye doctor in Scotland! He does not want to see me again until 2028.) He then recommended I purchase an eyelash curler (he couldn’t think of what an eyelash curler was called, so he mimed the action with his hand over his eye). Then he told me to get a grip.
For the last five years or so we have always finished our visit like this:
me: “The sentinel of nurses you have around you make me feel like you are retiring soon. Will you be here next year?”
him: (Smiles) - “I’m not ready to retire yet.”
me: “You seem old enough.”
him: “Yes. But no.”
And so it goes…
He is the reason I haven’t permanently moved to Canada.
Blessings & Love & vitamin D,
