Is it a plane?
Our perfect canine, Hunter, and I have a lot in common.
We both like to sit in front of the fire.
My sweet Sven's golf channel makes us both stretch and yawn.
And we both detest going to the doctor.
We have our differences as well.
Hunter likes to catch and kill innocent little creatures, while I remain a pacifist.
Hunter loves swimming in our murky pond.
My toes don't even dare touch the water.
And Hunter makes a huge display of himself at the clinic.
Take last Wednesday for instance. When the receptionist called his name. You should have been there. Hunter laid down on the floor spread eagle and refused to go into the examination room.
And that was after he already pissed on their front pillars.
I take a much more dignified approach.
I remain calm and inconspicuous.
So inconspicuous that I kind of missed ten years of appointments that I failed to schedule.
And since your time and your money is the same to a doctor as your blood is to a vampire, according to my calculations, an upcoming colonoscopy event that I have marked as interested in going to in March, as well as a consult with my surgeon in June, will put me at eleven appointments since October, which will have me right back on track.
I will have met my quota of appointments. They will have collected vast sums of money from my insurance company. And I will have reached the top of my out-of-pocket premium.
So the universe can rest again.
Ain't nobody getting away with anything.
Here is another interesting difference between me and my puppy-dog.
When my doctor is speaking, I listen to my doctor.
He growls whenever Dr. Clousseau opens his mouth.
It would be the equivalent of me doing the old, "la la la la la la la la la," with my fingers stuck in my ears.
It's just plain juvenile behavior.
And while I am at the front desk of the vet clinic waiting for Hunter's astronomic bill to pay, which I should be getting a cut of since I have to do most of the exam, he's out in the car with my sweet Sven, sound asleep in the back seat.
When doctors speak to me, I listen.
Because I think they have something to say.
Unlike a certain furry creature that I live with, I remain open minded.
At my last appointment with an endocrinologist, which translates to medicine doctor, for all of you lay people, my eyes were wide open.
Did you know that there is a pill out there that you can take for five years that will turn you into a superhero?
"It does have a couple of side effects," she says.
"Like what?" I asked.
"Well, for starters, it can cause hot flashes."
"Oh. I never cared for those," I said. "What else?"
"Vaginal dryness. But there is a cream for that."
"Yikes. Anything else?"
"Sometimes bone loss, a change in memory and joint stiffness."
I just stared at her.
"And in very rare cases," she went on, "uterine cancer."
I don't know about you, but I don't even like the word uterine.
"Now. Do you have any questions for me?" she asks.
"Well, yes," I said. "Can you remind me again what the good part of taking this pill would be?"
"Of course. Essentially what this pill will do is remove every last bit of estrogen from your body. Right now, you have a tiny bit left. And your type of cancer is driven by estrogen."
"I have estrogen left?"
And here I'd gone through that whole identity crisis thing over losing it a decade ago.
I still have a little bit of estrogen left.
"Can I keep my tiny little bit of estrogen?" I asked her, proud as a peacock.
"It's your decision," she says. "There's not a right or wrong answer for your situation. You need to take all of this information that I have given to you. Look it over. And weigh your options. If you do decide to take this pill, it will in effect make you, super menopausal."
It's Super Menopausal Woman!
Of all the ever loving super heroes that are out there, why is my only choice, Super Menopausal Woman?
What I would like to know is, what kind of shitty side effects does Super Man have to deal with that we never hear about?
I could feel a full beard and mustache sprouting, as well as male pattern baldness beginning, just sitting across from her and talking about taking it away.
That little, tiny bit of estrogen that I have been clinging to is probably the only thing between me and all of the above.
Well, that and my mustache removal kit from Walgreens.
"Take this information with you. Talk it over with your family. And let me know what you decide," she says.
"Okay," I said. "I will let you know."
We shook hands.
And I departed.
"Sven," I said, "So, there is this little pill that I can take every day for five years that will make me super menopausal. Do you think I should take it?"