World Domination or Certain Death

I broke my knee and arm in a skiing accident when I was 17.  I had surgery on that knee when I was in the Navy and have since had chronic pain.  For this and other reasons, I am a disabled veteran and am entitled to free health care for the rest of my life at any Veterans Administration’s (VA) Medical Facility.  This is a blessing, but much like Peter Parker’s brush with a radioactive spider, also a curse.

I’m familiar with hospitals all over the country.  My broken knee and arm were neither the first nor the last bones I would break on my 5”7 frame.  A friend (in no way associated with the medical community) recently diagnosed me with small-footed-syndrome™, a condition which limits the body from maintaining its balance due to its too-small base paired with its too-tall height.  I accept this information as fact and have since begun purchasing shoes a half size larger and stuffing them with socks.  Like millions of men before me, this is to give the impression of genetic superiority to potential mates, lest they believe our children would suffer from the same small-footed-syndrome™ as myself and search for a better (larger-footed) genetic match. 

Aside from my newly diagnosed disease, I am also a borderline hypochondriac… surprisingly enough.  I once had pain in my chest that was so intense that I convinced my parents to rush me to the ER before my impending heart attack triggered by the early onset heart disease that I so clearly had.  It turned out to be gas.  I walked out, head held high, with Mylanta and a few hundred dollars worth of co-pay.  As I explained to my parents all those years ago, this was a small price to pay for the peace of mind knowing that their healthy, athletic pre-teen daughter was in fact not having a heart attack. 

I recently had my yearly appointment (code word, pap smear) at my local VA hospital.  Like the others I have visited, these buildings are dreary, soul rendering institutions suitable only for the 47%.  The results came back abnormal, showing the possibility of pre-cancerous cells.  This is extremely common and is generally followed by a second pap smear to rule out irregularities due to different stages of menstruation, inflammation, a drop in the Dow or a regime change in the Sudan.   Naturally, in its infinite wisdom, the VA prescribed me a colposcopy, a highly invasive and unpleasant procedure.  This was like treating the common cold with an intensive round of chemo.  

My gynecologist knew nothing about me.  She didn’t know that I was an (Half) Ironman or that I floss every day.  I mean (Half) Ironmen and regular flossers do not get afflicted with pre-cancerous cells.   But the rational side of me took over and I realized that if I was having this procedure it meant that I was both barren and dying a slow, painful death.  Obviously. 

Leading up to the colposcopy was an arduous process that took about an hour.  The nurse practitioner took my vitals.  I told her I always have a low body temperature, but she didn’t believe me; they never do.  The thermometer read 94.6˚.  She took it twice with the same result then used a second thermometer, again testing twice.  She recorded the highest result of 96.4˚.  I’ve always had a very low body temperature, which I am convinced is preserving my skin so I will be the hottest 50-year-old on the planet (invest early, fellas), which leads me to believe that my life’s purpose is probably genetic world dominance, establishing the first true Gattaca* (after first researching prosthetic-foot-elongation™).

The nurse followed up with an extensive dive into my family’s medical history.  She glanced at my online medical record and then casually announced that I tested positive for Hepatitis B. 

Readers: slow your role.  If I had tested positive for HepB, “The Adventures and Missteps of a Boat School Diva: Shenanigans, Tomfoolery and Other Bits of Ridiculousness,” would hardly be the forum I would choose to announce this.  Continue reading, please…

I broke out into a cold 96.4˚ sweat.  My heart raced and I thought of all the reasons that my life was now over, of course knowing nothing about Hepatitis B, its causes, symptoms or treatment.  I nearly burst into tears, asking what this meant in an octave so high it rattled the windows. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said flatly.  “It shows you were vaccinated for Hepatitis B.  You don’t actually have it.” 

Somewhere, somehow, I hope that I am wracking up points for my non-violent behavior.  “You see, Officer, I know I snapped this one time, but what had happened was…”

I moved into the treatment room where a matted brown sterile table with cold, sharp metal stirrups taunted me like a fat bully waiting for school to get out; no escape but to face it.  Having already been positively diagnosed with small-footed-syndrome™, and falsely diagnosed with Hepatitis B, which in my mind was every bit a life-ending, painful, humiliating disease, the pressure was too much and I broke.  I started sobbing, knowing that the worst was clearly in store. 

I had cancer. 

Contagious cancer. 

Leprous, contagious cancer that would spread through my uterus, breasts, skin, clothes and anyone I came in contact with. 

My life… was over.

I have always been a mass of contradictions.  The little girl who played with Barbies and planned her wedding to Ken in a beat before plastering mud on her face and playing Army with all boys on her block; the girl who was interested in fashion and makeup and went to the Naval Academy; the woman who loves her independence but yearns for a family.  So, for me, it’s not terribly shocking that I’m the same person who took those moguls head-on and fearless at 17, but dramatizes life in extremes that cause my 96.4˚ body to react with tears and trepidation. 

Either way, what hangs in the balance is simple.  World domination or certain death.  With stakes this high, I'm going to start flossing twice a day.  

    

*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gattaca