Tuesday, I had two appointments for the bod, the annual GYN exam and the dentist. I have a question: Why does everyone else talk about placque-gone-hard as "tartar," but the dental folk call it "calculus"? (I'm not complaining: I like the idea that every six months my teeth have been been working out complex equations all over my enamel while I've been watching Charm School with Mo'Nique and mastering online Tetris.)
Goodness. Already, I digress. I also got a tetanus shot, and believe you me, I've been milking the sore arm for all it's worth, which turns out to be: beer delivery from Brandon, an excuse not to tickle Caleb, and a general license to moan.
"Why does your arm hurt?" Caleb asked.
"Because I got a tetanus shot," I said.
"What's that for?"
"Well, if I step on a rusty nail, then the shot makes it so I won't get a blood infection," I told him.
Caleb raised his eyebrows. Clearly, he was trying to imagine a situation in which his mother would encounter a rusty nail.
"It could happen!" I said. It could happen if a band of dip-tet enthusiasts broke into my house and left a bed of rusty nails right next to where I was sleeping.
I go to the doctor because I'm convinced that something terrible--something statistically unlikely--will happen to me. Did you know that there is such a thing as cancer of the sinuses? Do you know all the warning signs for meningitus? Have you gotten the email about the breast cancer that shows itself simply by making your nipple look crusty and wilted?
Have you noticed that your mate has moved the Merck Medical Manual to the back of the pantry?
Weirdly, though, I have a blind spot with the normal aging process. This is such an excellent article in the New Yorker, but I have to say, the beginning freaked the shit out of me. I talk an enthusiastic game with the neuroscience, but really? I want my mind and my body to be just passing acquaintances. I left my heart with Des Cartes.