The closer I get to 30, the more dire are the diagnosis from Google.
At 25, the warnings were about laugh lines and crows feet. Now every bloody website is warning that all my hormones will start disco dancing with disastrous results.
Poor Partner. While he has been seriously considering buying this new device that will help him track my PMS dates -- he has new-found appreciation for 'mood swings' -- he is close to losing all hope. It's funny how "getting hormonal" means totally different things as you age.
Two years back, in my angsty-aunty avatar, had written how much I hate reading medical websites. I still hate them and I still read them. Since I have been gaining weight, losing hair and have a constant neck-shoulder-wrist pain; I have been trawling some more med websites. According to the symptoms listed -- and observed in self -- my thyroid is acting up (or down), my Vitamin E intake is dismal and I might be developing carpal tunnel syndrome.
After much moaning at home, Partner insisted -- it was a threat -- that I visit a doctor. It's been an hour since I've come back and other than giving 35 ml of my blood in three separate test tubes, I am very disappointed.
"Your name is Bose? I've never heard it before" says little Japanese doctor, Dr Low.
"Er, yes. Bose, like the speakers..."
"But you are not a speaker," he responds along with a, ha-ha.
I smile. The speaker-association usually works with people who cannot pronounce a simple four-letter word. The other do-you-understand-ny-name trick being, 'JB, like JB-Hi-Fi'. I don't know why, but every single Australian has laughed really loudly at that. The joke's on them.
The doctor though, is a different (nut) case.
"You are not German either," he continues his observation.
"Correct, I am Indian."
"You are very far from home no?" he says and I bite my tongue not to point out that so is he. And in enemy nation, going by the Aussie-Japanese history.
"So Indian girl with funny name, what is wrong with you?" he asks, looking at me as if I am a newly discovered species or something. I am glad for the change of topic since I've paid him $ 45 consultation fees and not to discuss how 'funny' my name is. As I've written earlier; I've got that my entire f*****g life.
So I tell him I suffered from hyperthyroidism a year and a half back.
"Oh you did? You look nice and fatty now?" he asks/says, grinning.
I ignore the grin (and the 'fatty') and enumerate how I suspect thyroid mischief because I am losing hair. He gets up and starts poking the top of my head, fiddling with my hair. I wait for a diagnosis.
"You have a lot of hair," he announces, still fiddling.
"I would like to keep it doctor..."
"It's nice soft hair too. Strawberry shampoo?" he asks. I am baffled.
"Is the strawberry shampoo causing hair loss doctor?" It better not, bloody expensive shampoo.
"Naw, my wife will like my hair to smell of strawberry I am thinking," he responds.
I quickly enumerate my other problems -- wrist-shoulder-neck pain -- and he quickly starts poking my shoulder and neck, but refuses to touch my wrist.
"Very skinny shoulders for nice, fatty Indian girl," he says, "Any repeat activity you do with hands?" Many in fact, however I choose the most innocuous...
"I am a writer, use the computer a lot."
"Ah the Internet gives me many patients," he announces gleefully.
"Do you think I might have carpal tunnel syndrome?"
"Hrmph. The Internet also makes my patient think they are doctors. Google is evil," he frowns now. I am pleased, enough of 'fatty' and 'ha ha' from him.
"Any family history of diseases?"
I list several life threatening ones -- all true -- and he looks very amused.
"Then you need blood test; for diabetes, cholesterol and thyroid," looking even more pleased now. He approaches with a syringe and three test tubes, plunges the syringe into my right forearm and says, "Red, red blood, let's see how fatty your blood is."
The 'fatty' is really getting to me now. The test tubes filled, he tells me that there is nothing that he can see wrong with me.
"Oh. Are you sure the hair loss is not serious?"
"I don't know," he says and looks at me blankly. It worries me. Since he is not saying anything else and is now simply smiling, I get up, thank him and start walking towards the door. When I am almost out of the door he calls out,
"Little Bose..." I turn around, door open, one foot out.
"You have big, fatty breasts. Check them regularly. Good for breast cancer." I leave.
And I thought medical websites were bad?! WTF.