Thursday Thoughts From the Throne

Thomas Fuller quote over NYC bridge

If you will recall my corny post from last month, Twindaddy of Mental Defecation correctly deduced that I had written that post while sitting on the toilet. Truth be told, I do a lot of blogging from the potty. Clearing the bowels tends to clear the mind. In the comments Twindaddy graciously offered to allow me to use “Thoughts from the Throne” which was a recurring feature on a previous blog. I love alliteration. Alliteration is sexy. 

So I am going to try to make this a recurring feature. It may not be every week, but from time to time you may see this title and I wanted you all to know where it came from. 

Also, you should know the above image was created using Pixlr. Desley Jane at Musings of a Frequent Flying Scientist did a post on this recently. I have found that it is addictive…. 

Getting the Worm

Flowers in the NYC Metropolitan Museum of Art

“Mommy? Can I go potty?” 

Her voice pulled me out of a deep sleep in the midst of a nightmare about a movie set with Nicole Kidman and a patient who ran a telephone ministry dial-a-prophetess line. The movie was to be a psychological thriller. The prophetess had just robbed me of money and souvenirs I had pilfered from the set. I am not sure what a dream like that says about my life right now…

“Sure, baby. You don’t even have to ask, you know.” I have lost count of how many I times I’ve said this to her. 

“Ok!” 

I heard her skip down the hall to the bathroom. I glanced over at the clock. 3AM. I would have groaned out loud but that would have taken too much energy.

A minute or two later…

“Mommy, I wiped but I didn’t flush because I didn’t want to wake anyone up.”

“Thanks, sweetie. Go on back to bed.”

“Ok!”

And I heard her skip back down the hall to her bedroom.

Sleep? For me, it was gone. Just like that I was turned into the early bird. Too bad I don’t like worms.

Oops! I Did It Again….

Inside the Intrepid aircraft carrier in New York City

“MOM*!!!! Gross. Say ‘Excuse me…'” 

“What?”

“You farted!”

“Nah….”

Technically she’s right. I did fart, not that I would ever admit it out loud. It just sort of escaped. I don’t know if you truly get grassier in old age or if you just get less motivated to curtail the explosions when they rise to the surface. All I know is that I fart. I fart a lot. 

In fact, I come from a long line of farters.

One of the few times I was brave enough to have friends over in high school a sound erupted from the next room. The longest, loudest, wettest fart I had ever heard. My friends grew silent. One whispered, “Was that what I think it was?” Yes. Yes it was. That was the sound of my own mother making sure I never, ever had an adolescent social life to speak of. 

It is old news, that smelling farts may actually help prevent stokes and heart attacks. Unfortunately, my kids are not interested in the research. In their minds, it is chemical warfare. AND they are big enough that I cannot blame it on them anymore without them fighting back. Maybe I need a dog?

You may be expecting at this point that I will wrap up the post with some pithy moral lesson or propose a solution to an ethical delimma. Not this time, folks. But if you, too, fart a lot you do not fart alone. 

* To convey the proper level of shock and disapproval the word “MOM” here should be read with two syllables as in MOoo-ooOM.

** The photo above is from a WWII era aircraft carrier in NYC named the Intrepid. I highly recommend a visit if you are ever in the area.

The Boobs Have It

Display in museum in New York City
Do you know how many breasts I have touched? 

Thousands of them.

It is staggering when I reflect upon it. 

So many breasts. So very many. All shapes and colors and sizes. Hairy. Not hairy. Moles and rashes and skin tags galore. Droopy. Perky. Somewhere in between.

During breast exams I have for years and years referred to the exam as the “boob check.” Whenever I made reference to my breasts of anyone else’s I nearly always called them boobs or boobies. 

To be honest, I thought it was cute.

Touching another woman’s breasts makes me uncomfortable, maybe even a bit embarrassed. I feel the same when someone else is looking at or touching mine in a nonsexual, clinical sort of way. So I made fun of breasts and joked about the situation. It took some of the sting out of the situation to act goofy.

One of the many beautiful things about blogging  is that from time to time someone says something that makes me reexamine a part of my life and causes me to make some changes. 

Mark at Exile on Pain Street made a comment on one of my blog posts a while back (ok, maybe it was WAY back in July of 2015) that has stuck with me:

“I hate that word. Boobs…. Boobs sounds comical and crude. It lacks decorum. They’re beautiful! Not something to make fun of.”

This. From a MAN. 

At first, I blew it off. What does he know about women’s bodies anyway? What gives him the right to tell me what is disrespectful about the term boobs. I can can dang well call them anything I want, can’t I? I own a pair after all.

But it ate at me. 

And I felt kind of guilty.

I would take that comment out from time to time and chew on it. The word boob is, after all, another way to refer to someone who is a fool. An idiot. My breasts are way better than that, aren’t they? So are every other woman’s breasts for that matter. They give pleasure. They give life. Right or wrong, so much of who we are as women is wrapped up in these exocrine glands. I would never tell a man to show me his “twig and berries” if I were doing a genital exam. Why do I persist in denigrating the female anatomy during office visits? 

Excellent question.

Yesterday I was telling a woman to change into my lovely blue paper gown so we could do a breast exam when it struck me…

When was the last time I called them boobs?

It had been a long, long time, I realized.

And that made me smile…

Reflective

Central Park duck pond

“He had an awful lot to say about you.” 

I steeled myself for what was to come. I had no idea how physicians in the group I left perceived me now, almost eight years later.

Eight years? Had it really been that long?

She laughed heartily.

I relaxed.

Her dentist, apparently good friends with the other provider, referred her there for a work up for bone loss he had picked up on dental X-rays. I stumbled upon the visit in her medical record in the EHR when she requested a refill on one of her medications. Aside from the fact that it was a work up I could have easily done and referring her to another primary care provider when she had one already was itself a bit unprofessional, I did not know if she would make her way back to me or stick with him. Patients always loved him. 

So I waited.

“I told him you were my favorite doctor ever. He said you had to be right about everything but he missed working with you.”

Right about everything? Really?

Admittedly there are certain things I do not compromise on. You routinely lose my patient’s vaginal specimens and I will insist that you come and spread your legs for a speculum exam as punishment. Ok, not really that drastic but I take that sort of thing very seriously. Pelvic exams are not just physically uncomfortable, they are emotionally uncomfortable for patients and saying, “just have them come back for a repeat” is not an adequate response when I am dealing with a lost specimen for the fifth time in as many months. I will raise holy hell if I have to. But I am rambling….

It is interesting sometimes to see what people remember or think about me. Sometimes it hurts, though, and most of the time I would just rather not know. Is needing to being right about everything what I wanted to leave him with? 

No. 

Not really.

But it could have been worse. At the end of my tenure at that office there was all sorts of drama, he had been involved in some of that, and I was glad to leave it all behind when I left.

A few weeks later I ran into that same former partner at a restaurant. I was there with my kids to get something to eat after a long, tough Friday. They were beat. So was I. 

He saw me and walked over say to say hello. We chatted for a few minutes about how his kids were all grown up now.

“I used to work with your mom,” he said to my son and daughter. “Do you know what she did?” 

My kids swung their tired eyes over to him and focused on his face, warily. He was a stranger. They were used to strangers addressing their mom in public but were not used to being addressed directly themselves. I again braced myself, not knowing what he would say. 

“She told a bunch of kids at an office picnic that she would pay them $5 if any of them hit me with a raw egg. All of a sudden this whole herd of kids was running at me with eggs in their hands.” My son snickered. “So do you know what I did?” They shook their heads, leaning in close to get the scoop. “I told them I would pay $10 if any of them got her with an egg. They chased her all over that park.”

“Did they get her?” My son asked eagerly.

“Sure did.”

I interjected here. “With ONE egg, alright? Just one.” I held one single finger up for emphasis.

Now? I am a legend as far as my kids are concerned. My son in particular loves pranks. He loves knowing mom does, too. I am grateful to my former partner for giving us that.

Time passes, doesn’t it?

Time heals wounds by bending memories. It tempers recollections and feelings until sometimes bygones truly can be bygones. 

I haven’t played a good prank in years, though. That is drawback to the passage of time. I am getting so awfully dang old!

Hanging Out

Old Ferris wheel in black and white

I find that I am more and more conscious of my own nose hair. What is interesting about this is that I never, ever notice the nose hair of other people and if I did happen to see some bits poking out of a nostril it would not gross me out. So WHY on Earth do I care about my own nostril hair? 

Is this because my nose hair is getting longer? 

Perhaps I am growing more and more sensitive about the change of appearance that comes with aging and I am finding myself more interested in controlling the things that I can have some influence over? 

And then I wonder if there are people who do care about other people’s nose hair and if so, why do they care? What else do they do in their free time?

These are the thoughts I have on a Sunday morning after yet again having one of those pesky hairs ripped from my poor tender nostril by the stupid nose hair trimmer that is supposed to CUT the stupid things. I swear, next time I may as well just tweeze them out….

Show Off

My son finished his piano solo at the Christmas program. Oh Little Town of Bethleham. He played every note perfectly. I was so dang proud of him! I stopped the video I was taking with my smartphone so I could clap like a crazy woman. I *might* have even shouted, “You are so frickin’ awesome!” 

All of the other kids took a bow or curtsied while the audience clapped politely. My son? He paused right there at center stage, a slow grin spreading across his face. And then? 

He dabbed. 

Yes, the boy dabbed. In the middle of the church auditorium in front of hundreds of people, he dabbed. Dabbing, the weird dance move that appears as if you are sneezing at the same time as you are trying to fly off like a super hero.

People laughed. They screamed. They cried. Some whistled. One woman fainted. Strangers were giving him high fives and knuckles as he sauntered back to his seat. Every single boy that followed after him on stage also dabbed at the end of their performance.

And so I was left wondering how on earth did I end up with a cool kid? I was never that cool. I was so square I couldn’t even dream of being that cool. I am still terribly uncool, even in adulthood. Especially in adulthood….

Shaded

IMG_4331

I always block my ID when calling patients. If I don’t, I start getting direct calls from patients. Those kinds of patient calls are the minority, to be sure, but they are exhausting and disruptive and are sure to occur when I am on the toilet having a rather tough poo (lots of noisy grunting) or whilst in the midst of mind blowing sex (also lots of noisy grunting) or something else equally awkward like changing a high lightbulb while precariously balanced on a ladder (probably also involving lots of noisy grunting).

One consequence of this is that patients don’t answer my calls. I have to leave a message and wait for them to call me back, sometimes an hour later. It happens almost 50% of the time when patients call the answering service, even though they are expecting me to return their call. It occurs 90% of the time when I have to call unsolicited, like when the lab alerts me that a patient’s potassium is 2.3 or their platelet count is 10 or maybe the hemoglobin level is 4.5 (these are very bad things by the way) and I need for them to go to the emergency room.

OR, the patients have the feature activated on their phone that will not allow unidentified callers through. That requires that I call the answering service back, then they have to call the patient and walk them through how to deactivate the phone feature, then call me to let me know I can try the call again. Sometimes that still does not work because they are unable to deactivate the feature and I have to call the answering service to call the patient back for an alternate number. 

What I really, really want is a way to ID myself when calling without showing my phone number. “Dr. Victo, phone number unavailable.” Or some such thing. 

Maybe that already exists and I am just a dork when it comes to telecommunications… 

Vented

Floor vents at the opera
There is one of these under every single seat at my local opera house. 

What is it? 

Why, I am glad SO you asked!

Supposedly, they are air conditioning vents. Why the heck would you put an AC vent under each and every seat, right where the butt hole resides?

To keep everyone’s butt cool?

Perhaps.

But I have my other theory….

There is this thing called the gastrocolic reflex. When the stomach distends with a meal, it sends a signal to the colon to make room because more shit is coming down the pipeline. 

Because of how late in the evening the opera takes place, people often eat before hand. What do you do when you need to poo? You start to fart. How old is the opera crowd, on average? Old.

Therefore, operas = old farts.

I can say this because I am one of them.

Now, people who go to operas generally have lots of money. Rich people don’t like farts. Awful smells are very disturbing to their sensibilities. So when you are designing an opera to seat lots of rich people what do you do? You integrate a ventilation system that blows away their farts.

That being said, I sat on the second row yesterday with my kids during an opera aria mashup performance for families. I savored that second row, as it will likely never happen again in my real life. These family things cannot make the opera much money and I am certain that there is not much fame and fortune to be had for performers who do them, but I am grateful, oh so grateful. My son began belting out “La donna e mobile” from Verdi’s Rigoletto as the tenor’s voice soared and no one glared at him. My daughter followed the female conductor’s baton and crazy hair with rapt attention. “Mommy, I want to do that!” she whispered. 

So here’s a shout out to all of those people who work hard to make the arts come alive for kids. You all make a difference.