How "Santa" Saved me from my "Line of Weird"

Now, I don’t know if all of you know, but I am a nurse. I loved it and was proud to be a nurse. Eventually I had some grumbling, not ‘optimistic/nice person’ issues when I worked as a nurse in New Zealand but that is a story for another time. What I would like to discuss here is one of the hazards of being a nurse.

See, to become a nurse you have to learn stuff about the human body. All about how it is supposed to work and all about the horrors of when your body goes rogue and unfortunately, even when you take a break from being a nurse, that stays with you. You end up raising a slightly hypochondriacally-leaning daughter who always smells faintly of Purell. Also, you tend to over-react when a family member is sick demanding they go to the hospital immediately, without caring that you have just made them freak out that they are going to die. Furthermore, when something goes wrong in your own body, you are pretty sure it is cancer. Not that you are morbid or anything; you just spent four years in school hearing horror stories of people who were stupid and could have been saved but ignored symptoms and left it too late and now they are dead.

Fast forward a few years and I find a lump in my breast. Now to be honest, “lump” is not really the right word, more like a “line of weird”. Plus, I also have a weird stabbing pain there, so that is another box ticked. (Picture me sticking my tongue out at you and saying, “so there!” Because I am sure before I explained this you were rolling your eyes at my paranoia.)

After umming and ahhing with Al we both think I am fine. But we are leaving to a country where, if you are dying, it will cost lots of money and because I refuse to die of stupidity I decide to go to the doctor. My usual doctor doesn’t have any appointments till next week (after we leave for the expensive dying country) so I must see the drop-in doctor. After waiting 45 minutes (well, it didn’t feel that long because I kept ducking into the bathroom to make sure the “line of weird” is still there. It is, but it seems to be shrinking. This is not surprising because you find often when you are a hypochondriac just going into the doctor’s office cures you.) I consider escaping but I have already paid to see the doctor. I am standing in the corner because I have had to take over daily operations of my immune system and it is probably more dangerous for me to stand in the cesspool that is the local doctor’s office than for me to just deal with my “line of weird”. I try to act nonchalant because it looks a bit strange to see a woman standing in a room full of empty chairs, reading her Kindle. The other patients are trying to be polite but keep looking me up and down wondering if there is something wrong with me or if they should be keeping an escape route handy or if I know something they don’t know, like if you stand you get called in sooner.

A more fit, redheaded version of Santa (really this is an exaggeration as the only similarities are that he has a beard and is jolly) comes around the corner and finally calls my name. I follow along behind, head hung low in embarrassment because I know cancer doesn’t grow overnight as my line of weirdness has and I know that he will tell me that as soon as I sit in his office. But, because I am a nurse, I have also been drilled with horror stories of all those strange cases, those “exceptions to the rule” and I am now convinced that I have a new form of cancer that grows overnight. As we enter his office I find that he is not a doctor but a PA who is over from the States. I also find that I am pretty sure he is gay. This puts me instantly at ease. Now don’t judge me; it was a momentary lapse. I know I should not discriminate against heterosexual doctors who can be just as professional as the homosexual PA (or can they?) And people should not be labeled; they should just be people. But I like him better than most of the heterosexual doctors and not just because he might be gay but because he is REALLY nice and calm. And again, he may not be gay but he puts me at ease and, gay or not, I am happy now for him to touch my breasts.  He asks me what is going on and I explain. He does the exam and crinkles up his endearing face and says “but you have it on this side too…”, feeling both sides together. I say “No I don’t!” (And to be fair to me it was a smaller “line of weird” on the left than the right.) Then he says “I think that is a rib.”

At this I respond professionally, choosing my words carefully to ensure understanding: “Shut up! Do not tell me I went to the doctor because I have ribs!”  He was sooo nice and proceeded to explain that as I have recently started running again (because I have finally managed to make my immune system bow to the almighty drug) he thinks I have inflammation in the cartilage between my ribs, causing the slight swelling and pain. Now he even drew me a picture (because clearly I was not a healthcare professional who had spent years studying the human body, because what kind of healthcare professional needs to be told that she has a functioning body part?) and sent me on my way.

So, just in case anyone is wondering, I have had confirmation from another healthcare professional that I do in fact have ribs.