They call me Dr. Peelgood

Ok, that is a complete lie. Not one person has ever come close to calling me Dr. Peelgood, but you know how I love to incorporate lyrics into my post titles. Just go with it for a second.

I’ve had a handful of doctor appointments and lab tests over the past two months. It really should not have taken two months, but they moved a couple appointments which I then cancelled and rescheduled, and then I switched doctors. It all made for a long, drawn out process! I’ll save you the drama and we’ll go with the super abbreviated version: routine physical exam detected protein in my urine (that’s “pee pee” for you mommies out there). I donated an obscene amount of pee to the lab for testing (seriously, several Thor-sized jugs that required refrigerator storage during the collection period! Eww!), and an ultrasound of my kidneys for kicks. You know, because I really enjoy sitting in a waiting room, topless underneath my hospital gown, while befriending an eighty-year old lady who asked me if she needed to keep her panties on and if I was pregnant. Yes and no? No and no? I really didn’t want to picture that lady in her panties—thanks!

Could have been this, could have been that, but lucky for me, it turned out to be nothing. Nothing = orthostatic proteinuria, which happens to be benign. It’s also rare in people my age as it is more commonly found in adolescents. I look young, right? My doctor, who I love and wish that he works on more than just kidneys, wants me to have a yearly urine check just to be safe.

Ok, so now that I know that I’m fine and will live to skydive yet again, I can tell you my short story about the annoying nurse who checked me in to my final appointment on Wednesday. You know how a nurse-type person typically checks your vitals and stats (Jenny, am I using the right terms? Help an NSC out!) before the doctor sees you for your appointment? Well, said lovely nurse-type person asked me to step on the scale, which I hate. As a former fat/chubby/drank way too much beer in college kinda gal, I despise weighing myself unless I’m on my home scale, nekkid. We’re talking about the girl who wore nearly the same, identical outfit to each of my maternity appointments so as not to skew the actual weight increase each week! Anyhoo, I step on the scale and sigh. Nurse lady skips the bottom measurement over to 150. As if I weigh more than 150! She scoffed when she realized that her first guess was wrong, and moved the bottom bar over to 100. Then she slid the top bar over to far right side thinking that if I’m not 150 I must be quickly approaching it. (Jerk!) She literally appeared pissed off when the scale measurements evenly lined up at my actual weight. Normally, I would not divulge that number, but for the sake of this story, I weighed/weigh 120 even. Really? Really? Did she think I had thirty pound weights slipped into my boots? Thanks for the boost of confidence, lady.

On that note, have I mentioned that I am a newfound lover of Zumba! You’ve got to move it, move it…