smothered hope

Sigh. Another white-haired old man with good intentions but not enough time for me to even explain about the cortisone problem. I need to see a gynecologist who was trained in the last, oh, fifteen years or so. You know, one who doesn't prescribe exorcisms for hysteria or bloodlettings. (I left with a sheet I need to submit to a clinic in order to have a whack of blood tests administered. Apparently there are blood tests that can determine certain causes of dysmenorreha.) This one kept going on and on about yeast infections and how one can be born with them, and how once you get one, they tend to re-occur forever, blah, blah, blah. What, have I got herpes now?

Sigh. I just erased a long rant about the pain, about having no faith in male doctors, about how the next mention of a yeast infection is going to earn the commentator a kick to the groin so hard, s/he will taste what s/he had for dinner four days ago. But really, I should have known from the get-go that a doctor with such a swanky address wouldn't have the time for someone with an actual problem. This is the type of place where women with too much perfume and $200 slacks come for a check-up. (Seriously, I was coughing in the waiting room, the scent was so strong.) Just how I should have run from the last doctor when I saw the collage of baby photos adorning his walls. Or the one whose secretary looked to be about a thousand years old; his methods were only slightly more modern. The list goes on. What I need is a young, female doctor with more than just textbook training. Until then, I'm going to go chew some roots and chant to the Goddess, because it can't be any less effective than what I've already tried.

***********

The air is so dry as to incite nosebleeds upon waking and cracked skin on every exposed surface. There is no snow left to insulate the ground or provide humidity, and in effect, it feels twice as cold as the mercury would have us believe. My clomp-clomp heels skidded along every flat surface I crossed today, threatening to fling me from my feet much the way people in cartoons fly when they step on a banana peel. The city is a skating rink.

Slide-clomping through 1 Westmount Square this morning, I ran into the wonderful Angus, whose stiff perfecto proved soft and warm against my cheek as he hugged me hello. I collected his number, disappointed that he was hurrying to work with no time to share breakfast. I managed to find a strong cup of tea next to the bus stop in a little shop filled with exotic plants and healthy-looking foods. I scored a seat on the packed-as-usual #47 and came home to find one flatmate quietly nested in his room, back from his latest trip to New York.

My brain is burning with dehydration, and the cold has permeated the walls, my flesh, my bones. I've much thinking to do; a few Advil and a basket of laundry ought to calm my nerves. Oh, and the bad smell on Tuesday turned out to be the cat's ass. Don't ask how I discovered this.

Here is an abrupt ending.

back | forth

listening:
reading:
ingesting:
(see entries before 20.11.05)

previously on Smothered Hope:

unreal - 20.05.08
in which our narrator kinda just babbles on a bit - 15.05.08
drank several margaritas last night. they were great. - 04.05.08
spacey - 29.04.08
i will most definitely regret posting this in public - 28.04.08