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Going to the doctor’s is never much fun. Or can we make it fun?

Generally I don’t like a doctor’s visit. This has nothing to do with my physician, who is easy on the eye and has a great sense of humor. In any other situation he would be buying me a drink of some sort. Unfortunately he just prods and probes.

To me going to the doctor is admitting something is not right. Or worse still, thinking something is not right and then the doctor giving you that look; a look that can make you feel very small and silly.

But after Christmas I had to give in. This was not looking right I had to admit it when my mother raised her eyebrow and told me to get to myself an appointment as soon as I got back home. Mother always knows best I had learned a long time ago.

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“Don’t leave me! Please don’t die” my slightly over sensitive friend text me, when I told her the news I had received during my visit to the doctors. The only way I could calm her down was to let her come with me on the BIG day. I tried telling her it wasn’t at all as horrible as it all sounded. Sure it wasn’t going to be a carnival. But too many people around me had scarier stories to tell for mine to be of any significance to medical history.

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Coming out of surgery Mrs. B rushed towards me. “Are you feeling okay? Sit down! You look peaky! Does it hurt?” She flung her arms around me and kissed me as I’m sure only mothers know how to. “Let’s go get some lunch” I replied as my body was reminding me I had skipped breakfast that morning. My ever faithful friend clung to my lips as I told the gruesome story of how I had lain on the table bleeding and how the anesthetic hadn’t worked the first few times. She listen and reacted in all the right ways, making me feel like some kind of hero, almost making me forget the operation had been slight.

Well it had been painful, and I had bled, and the anesthetic was starting the wear off making that part of my precious body feeling very bruised and sore indeed. Maybe I did deserve a little attention, and a big lunch.
Lunch took two hours and we had laughed, and we had cried, and we had made big plans during that lunch. It had been the perfect medicine. How quickly I had grown accustomed to my role as patient. And as most drugs, this too was addictive.

We strolled along the market and into a tiny secondhand shop. Here hung the most perfect red leather boots… in my size! They didn’t come cheap… but I had undergone surgery today. The shop owner was just as happy I had survived and decided to give me 30% discount. The red boots would help me recuperate a little faster, I was sure. And so the red leather boots came home with me.

Did I mention that I had bled quite a bit whilst on the surgery table?

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Next was my ever doting mum. If anyone in this world knew how to make me feel better it had to be mum. And she wasn’t going to let me down today. There was sushi and wine and apple and cinnamon yoghurt (seriously good), and the crème de la crème… sets of underwear; saucy pinks, sophisticated browns embroidered, hot reds, and they were all soft and luxurious. And they were all deserved, because I had undergone major surgery only that morning. What better way to pick-me-up than a push-me-up?

I wanted to say stop… No, actually I was too far into that rabbit hole to want to stop. It felt too good, too easy. This sensation was equal to being a pop queen, I can only imagine. How long would this last? I was waiting for my conscience to bring me back down to earth, to stop the craziness, but that voice became more distant with every token of affection than was being slung my way.

I had become a medical whore; ready to show my scares in exchange for some sympathy, bit it a look, words of endearment, or something shiny.

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Next week I’m getting my wart quarterized.