^{picture courtesy of HappyHeathenLynn}

Well, I finally did it. I went to see my doctor and .... DISCLAIMER**** Any men who may be reading this might want to avert your eyes. I'm going to talk about the dreaded and mysterious Wimmin Stuff. ****END OF DISCLAIMER

Okay, now where was I? Oh yes, I remember. (mmm hmmm, see, it's helping already!) I went to the doctor and grabbed her by the lapels on her cute little doctor's coat and growled in my best imitation-of-Satan voice, "Give me hormones and give them to me NOW! She was a bit taken aback by my approach, although I have to say that if she expects me to believe that's the first time that has happened, I'm not buying it. No way. But, I digress.

So, Dr. MissPriss adjusted her prissy doctor coat and looked me square in the eyes and said, "Well, we don't really like to do hormone therapy here." Streams of fire shot from my eyes and lit her hair on fire (as this was not a "weepy" day, it was a "murderous rage" day.) As she set about dousing her head in the sink to put the fire out, I told her, "Look, I've already suffered through almost three years of hot flashes and my husband sleeps in a bullet-proof vest. Unless you've got some hormone-sprinkling fairy up your sleeve, "we" need to rethink that policy."

I have to give her credit. It had to be hard for her to try to salvage her dignity as she sat there with smoking hair and a crumpled lab coat with permanent creases in the lapels, but she gave it a shot. Studying my chart, she officiously said, "Let me check your chart. Hmmm, Mmm-hmm. Okay, we'll do it. Give me a minute." She scurried out of the room, never turning her back on me once.

A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. "Come in," I called. The door stayed closed.

"I'll just stay out here," Dr. MissPriss shouted through the closed door. "Now, is there any history of breast cancer, ovarian cancer, or uterine cancer in your family?" I answered a quick "no, no and no," and heard a shuffling sound by the door. I glanced in that direction to see pieces of paper being shoved under the door. More shouting from the other side, "Okay, here is your prescription, an order for a mammogram and bone density test, and one for some blood work."

"You can come in," I tried again. "Really, it's okay."

"No, no, that's fine. Just give me two minutes to clear the hall and you can find your way to the front. Oh, and if you need anything else, just call - really, no need for you to come back in."

I gathered my papers and the precious prescription for hormones from the floor, waited the allotted time and then made my way out into the hall. There was no one in sight. I knew Dr. MissPriss was lurking somewhere nearby, though, because I could smell burnt hair.

That was six days ago. Maybe it's psychosomatic, but I swear I'm feeling better already.

^{_{***NO DOCTORS WERE HARMED IN THE MAKING OF THIS BLOG***}}