Medicine Woman

Well, kids - I've had quite an interesting past few days, having gone to the doctor for the first time since I gave birth (and we all know how that turned out...) (Fracking awesomely, duh!) But this week was not as fortuitous for me. Here's an almost literal transcript of the conversation I had with the MD Wednesday morning:

Doc: Well, looks like you meet the requirements for obesity!

CKC: Great! Let's get pizza and celebrate!

Doc: Look. 24% body fat is mildly overweight, 27% body fat is moderately overweight, but once you reach 30%, you're obese. But you're just moderately obese. 35% is morbidly obese.

CKC: So what you're saying is that I'm not gonna die. I have to live with my fat.

Doc: Well, yeah.

CKC: So, what percentage am I?

Doc: 30.5.

CKC: Come on! .5%?! You're rounding up! That's not fair. I have very thick hair. All over.

Doc: I noticed. You remind me of my wife.

CKC: Wait, what are the categories again? A little chubby, Lane Bryant and no one wants to have sex with you?

Doc: Well, there's always some guy that's desperate.

CKC: I know. I married him.

Doc: You gotta cut the carbs. That's what's killin' ya.

CKC: So I should just eat salad.

Doc: Plain, yeah. With lemon. That's it.

CKC: A few bleu cheese crumbles? I'll add water...

Doc: No sauces. No dips.

CKC: Uh.... HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO LIVE?

Doc: They lie to you. No cereal. You can't eat cereal. That's the worst thing you could put in your face. All carbs. You add milk? Carbs. You add bananas? Carbs. Oatmeal? Forget it.

CKC: I'm just trying to make up for my husband.

Doc: I know, he's skinny as a rail, isn't he?

Fin.

Then I told him I've had some ringing in my ears, so he suggested I get an MRI to make sure I don't have Brain Cancer. (Okay, he might not have said Brain Cancer, but that's what I heard, cuz you know, I have problems with my ears.) One of the nice women working in the office overheard me talking about how I might have Brain Cancer and she said, "Oh, I know. I thought I had Brain Cancer, too - for years! They finally sent me for an MRI and it turns out I was just a little crazy! So I wouldn't worry if I were you."

Right.

I asked the doctor if the MRI machiney-thing would be open, and he said yes, sensing that I wouldn't get the scan if it were a closed tube. Of course when I showed up to the place, the machine was indeed a closed tube, and I freaked the frack out. I looked at the tech and said (ringing my hands and doing my best Sally Field), "It's a tube. He said it wouldn't be a tube." (Then I made dinner for my 5 children and that other one who is a product of my husband's affair. We drank enough wine that I forgot all about the closed tube and my gay son - who I accept fully - and my Republican daughter, who I tolerate.) I mean, at that point, why get in the machine? Obviously, I too am just a little crazy (YOU MEAN I HAVE TO GET INSIDE THAT TUBE?!) and clearly don't have Brain Cancer (THERE'S NO FARFING WAY I AM GOING TO GET IN THAT TUBE!).

If you've never had an MRI, let me fully illustrate what it feels like to have your head braced and your body shoved inside a tunnel: remember that scene in Kill Bill Vol. 2 where Uma gets buried alive? It's like that, except you can't punch your way out.

Alright. To be fair, it's only like that for a second. I actually eased into it in stages, and that really helped me a lot. First I laid down - not so hard since that's one of my favorite things to do. Then the tech strapped my head in and wrapped a sort of plastic helmet over my face, which felt a bit like that mask Anthony Hopkins wears in Silence of the Lambs, except it covered my forehead and eyes. That was when I decided Mark needed to be in the room. He had to take all of his jewelry off (which takes European men forever - I'm surprised he found a place to hang his purse) but they let him in, Thank God. The tech suggested he keep his hand on my leg during the scanning process, and even though we couldn't talk, that was comforting. She pushed me into the tube a bit, and I thought, oh, this isn't that bad. But when she gave me the final shove and my arms touched the side walls, I said, "Okay - take me out!" She told me if I crossed my arms and placed them on top of my chest - corpse pose, if you will - I'd be more comfortable. I took a deep breath, got my shit together, and felt that moment of clarity one does when you realize you just have to buck up and take whatever is coming your way. She slid me in, Mark held my leg, and ten minutes later I was done.

I'd show you the pictures of my brain, but trust me, they're too hot for the internet. Maybe on the next Girls Gone Cerebral DVD.

Wait - did I fail to mention I got to listen to music through the noise-canceling headphones? Yeah - that was great! Very relaxing.

Hey - here's a riddle for you: What's more ironic than a hipster wearing a sweatshirt covered in puffy paint?

Answer: Listening to Tim McGraw's country classic LIVE LIKE YOU WERE DYIN' while trapped in an MRI machine in corpse pose.

Honestly, the paradox was too delicious - I wanted to laugh, but I didn't want to screw up the scan and have to sit in there any longer. The last song I heard was the 1987 Club Nouveau version of Lean on Me. I can't think of a more perfect way to end such a traumatic affair.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=2vTDjy7KLi0