Let me begin by saying I love my opthamologist.
Not in a carnal, smarmy way. But because he’s smart, conscientious, and looks like he might be 12 years old. He has four children, so that’s probably not the case.
I needed to see him the other day, but he was on vacation. So I saw another doctor. She was very nice, and discovered a problem, so I have an appointment to see the 12-year-old in three weeks.
When you go to the doctor these days, you are given a two or three page report card detailing your visit. When I got home, I sat down, pulled it out of my purse, and started reading it. It had all the blah blah blah about insurance, meds, current diagnosis and What The Hell— a past diagnosis of “pseudophakia”. Falsefakeness? Hell, this was several lies beyond “hypochondria!” This was a diagnosis that shoved me past embarrassment directly into shame.
Of course I rushed directly to that 21st Century fountain of accuracy, and googled it.
To my amazement, I discovered that it meant “having cataracts removed from both eyes and replaced with implanted lenses.” Okay, I had this done several years ago. It was a serious procedure.
Apparently, I was not a hypochondriac. I was the victim of a late-night, sugared up slumber party of eight year old boys charged with naming a medical condition. It could have been worse. I just know the other choices would have included booger, fart, or double dog dare.