I suffer from calendarphobia.
It manifested itself when I bought a calendar from Office Depot instead of the bookstore. That meant my week began on Monday with Sunday tacked on at the end, sharing a square with Saturday. It seemed logical enough, but my brain wouldn’t make the adjustment. When I wrote down appointments, my brain counted squares instead of reading the day, so I’d write it in the wrong place, thereby showing up a day late for appointments.
I have now reverted to the calendars with Sunday at the beginning of the week.
Six months ago when I went to the doctor, she took issue with my exercise schedule (picture it written in the little triangle on Sundays) and wasn’t impressed with my weight, either. (Please don’t try to picture that at all!) She expected an improvement by my January appointment.
I’ve been dreading that appointment for days. Even though I know I’ve lost a little weight, that may or may not show up on the scales. We’re talking numbers I can show on one hand here and they can be distorted by things like fluid retention, constipation… you get the drift. (Oh, add “gas” to the list.)
My brain has been stressing for days about the looming appointment, telling me, “ACK!! Weigh-in on Tuesday!” and sending me into panic mode.
Panic mode is …well… constipating. All day yesterday I swallowed Citrucel fiber pills with glasses of water, hoping for a record BM. It didn’t happen.
Last night I didn’t have anything to eat or drink after midnight (as if we all drive through Wendy’s at 3 AM!) and set the alarm for 6:30 AM. My doctor has moved to the suburbs, so what used to be a five-minute drive now takes 30. I made it without so much as a cup of coffee, with ten minutes to spare. As I sat in the car until 8, my stomach began rumbling, letting me know that the fiber pills had been noted and processed.
The notice indicated that the train would be coming through about 8:30 AM.
I figured that was about the time my doctor would be sticking her finger up my rear end to check for polyps.
Oh, dear gawd. . . !
There was no bathroom in the waiting room. You may know that I have a history with doctor’s office bathrooms. I waited while the woman ahead of me checked in. The receptionist finally looked at me and asked, “Do you have an appointment?”
She could not find my name on her appointment sheet. She looked at my record and informed me that my appointment isn’t until Thursday.
Ducky. Calendarphobia recurrence. I must not have put that last loop on the 8 when I posted it in my brain. I was so sure, I hadn’t even looked at the calendar.
By that time it was 8:10. I figured I had about 20 good minutes.
“Could you do my bloodwork now so that I won’t have to fast again on Thursday?”
She shook her head regretfully. “No, because I don’t have the lab order yet.”
Ordinarily, I might have pushed that a little, but the clock was ticking. If I hurried, I could get to a supermarket for pears, broccoli, and more fiber pills before I broke into a cold sweat. Hey, when you’re planning something–and I’ve got two days here– might as well dream BIG. Dreaming about poop is not something I do, generally, but hey…!
Somebody alert Ripley’s, please.
I’m one of those people who enters the codes from my Diet Cokes into an My Coke Rewards account. I do it because they include some good causes to which points may be donated. They’ve recently added the American Red Cross Haiti Relief as an option and they’ll donate two points for every point we do.