Call Me A Cab, But Don't Call Me Old -- Or Young

I am not an old woman.

So then, why is it that everytime I go in for a medical appointment, I am surrounded by people of the previous three generations, all with false teeth, purple hair and three-pronged canes? Why am I the only one there with blonde hair and almost all my own teeth, walking unaided, and able to breathe without the help of a 10-litre oxygen tank attached to my hip?

As some of my readers already know, I am not the healthiest person on the planet. I may be one of the cuter ones, maybe one of the funnier looking ones, and probably one of the most erudite people (umm, what does that mean again?), but I'm definitely not one of the healthiest.

I have the following health issues: major generalized arthritis, migraines, irregular heartbeat, detached rectum retinas, severe myopia, Stickler Syndrome, scoliosis, mitral valve prolapse, currently undiagnosed digestive issues, currently undiagnosed issues with fatigue, hypoglycemia, cataracts, hearing loss, probable autoimmune issues...Shall I go on? Are you still awake?

So, yesterday, I had my regular eye appointment at the Eye Institute, to make sure nothing is going awry in the old eyeballs. I have a history of rectal retinal detachments, thanks to Stickler Syndrome and a husband who sometimes accidentally punches me in the eye. Long story. Another time.

Anyway, Stickler Syndrome is a connective tissue disorder that causes all sorts of problems anywhere in the body in which there is connective tissue, which would be just about everywhere, including the heart, the gums, probably even the anus.

I get to the hospital, and I'm late because all the drivers on the road suck ass I left the house too late. Of course. And the only parking I can find is at a meter, which costs about $1,000 per minute. And, of course, I only have a couple of bucks in my pocket. So, I throw in the only coin I have, and it gives me half a bloody hour, which we all know is actually only worth about three seconds when you're at the hospital. Because an appointment that's supposedly one hour long actually takes five hours.

I finally go into the hospital after emptying my pockets, and I make my way to the Eye Institute, which is in the farthest wing possible at this hospital. Of course.

And all this without my morning coffee. Can you say Mrs. Cranky Pants?

When I eventually go through the hospital maze and get to the eyeball area, I'm already exhausted and ready for my morning nap.

I walk into the waiting room, and come face-to-face with about 20 of the oldest, most decrepit and frail human beings this world has ever seen. For a moment, I thought I had actually just died and was having my first after-life experience in heaven's waiting room.

Not one person there had hair that was not some shade of gray or white, if they even had any. Many baggy pants, which always means there are diapers under there somewhere, and we all know what that means. Twenty pairs of beige, orthopedic, Velcro, slip-on shoes.

I finally get through my appointment, and the doctor has the gall to tell the assistant behind the desk to book the next appointment "for this young lady". I look at him with utter amazement, since it has probably been about 20 years since I've been described in this fashion. Usually, the words I hear are more akin to, "wrinkled mass of bag", "VERY long in the tooth", and "biddy,” “codger,” “coot,” “crone,” “fogy,” “fossil,” “geezer,” “hag,” “old fart,” “old goat,” “prune,” “senile old fool” and “vegetable," to name but a few.

And I'm upset, because I'm obviously the odd one out, and if there's something I can't handle very well, it's being ostracized and picked on, and that's what it felt like. Suddenly, I felt flushed, and horrible memories of my childhood came flooding back, and I ended up having to sit down in some old man's lap, which made his day, much to his wife's consternation.

This same thing happened to me a couple of months ago when I went for my regular heart check-up. These medical professionals are so used to dealing with people on their last legs that it's not unusual for them to do a quick second glance when they call my name and here comes this tall, blonde person whose breasts, although no longer exactly perky, are definitely not yet down around her ankles.

Next up, endoscopy. The old camera down the throat test to check for imperfections in my unhappy abdominal cavity. Oh, I can hardly wait for that one, because I know who I'm going to be sitting with in that waiting room. A bunch of white-haired biddies and grandpas, with green gowns on and little knee socks exposing hairy, spindly and varicosed legs, some of them sitting on foam doughnuts which allow them to silently let out little pippets of bean fumes from dinner the night before.

And when I go in for the test, they'll ask me if I've taken out my false teeth. And I will smile, tell them to fook off, and fart in their faces.