Has Anyone Seen My Pants? (5 page)

“I know; I just hope you didn’t come because you feel sorry for me. Like you know I don’t have a guy to go with so you told Brandon you had to come with me so I don’t kill myself or something.”

Jackie laughed. “I already told you, you could ‘have a guy’ if you want one. You’re just not looking. I know you say you are, but you’re not. I’m also not worried about it. You’re going to be fine; you always are. You put a lot of work into having the
career you’ve always wanted, and when you’re ready you’ll put the same amount of work into your personal life. Plus I think being single for a while is a good thing.”

“Wow. You really think that?”

“I really think that.”

“Thanks, Jackie. That means a lot. I actually think being single is really good right now, too. I just sometimes wonder if I like being single too much . . .” I started to tear up.

“There’s no crying in Cabo,” Jackie said.

I laughed. “True. But there is fingering!”

“Spring break, woooo!” Jackie chimed in.

As we got ready to leave, I got a text alert that my flight was delayed two hours. Jackie was on a different flight and hers was on time.

“Go ahead, I’m gonna stay here for a little bit longer,” I told her. “I don’t want to sit at that terrible airport that long by myself.”

Jackie and I hugged and had a stranger take one more Instagram photo of us, and then she took off.

I decided I was hungry, so I walked up to the restaurant to grab some lunch while I awaited further notice on my flight.

“How many?” the waiter asked me as he looked behind me, expecting to see someone else.

“Uno
,
”
I replied.

“Only
uno
?”

“Yes, only
uno
,” I said proudly, and he walked me to my table without saying another word.

What Ails Me?

I
find that the older I get, the more time I spend on WebMD researching a variety of possible ailments, real or imagined, and diagnosing myself. Recently, I convinced myself that I was suffering from early-onset menopause. I was just shy of turning thirty-nine at the time, so I knew that it would be
super
-early-onset menopause, but I found myself sweating profusely at night, and the only possible explanation for waking up in a pool of sweat that made sense based on my Internet search was “the change of life.” I sat in my gynecologist’s office and explained to my doctor, whom I have been going to for about fifteen years, that even though I was only thirty-eight years and three hundred forty-seven days old, I was experiencing the inevitable end of my menstrual cycle and thus, my youth.

“Well, if that’s the case, you’re experiencing it very, very early . . . but it can happen.”

“I knew it,” I said, satisfied with my keen self-diagnosis.

“I didn’t say it was happening to you, I just said it can happen. But it isn’t that common. What exactly are your symptoms?”

“I wake up in pools of sweat. Like I-need-to-change-the-sheets-the-next-day kind of sweat. I mean, I don’t actually change them but I should.”

“Okay, what else?” she asked.

“That’s it.”

“That’s it?”

“Isn’t that enough? Who sweats when they sleep? It’s not like it’s hard work.”

“Well, have you tried turning on your air conditioner?” she said jokingly.

“Ha ha, very funny. Seriously, it’s obviously menopause. Can you give me something to slow it down? Or maybe even speed it up? I don’t really
need
to have my period, it just gets in the way.”

“I really don’t think you’re experiencing menopause. But it might be something hormonal . . .”

“Yeah, something hormonal would be menopause!” I told her as if I was the one with the medical degree.

“All right,” she said, trying to politely get more information out of me, “we can do some hormone testing.”

“Great. Oh! And I’m also coughing a lot at night. Like I wake myself up coughing this dry, awful cough.”

“Huh. Really? Are you also coughing during the day?” she
asked in what sounded like the tone of someone who’s taking notes, yet she wasn’t holding a clipboard or even a pen.

“A little, but it’s worse at night.”

“Sarah, I think you have the flu.”

“Is that also a sign of early menopause?”

“No, it’s a sign of the flu.”

“I don’t think that’s what I have.”

“Are you also a little more tired than usual?” she asked, still seemingly making check marks on her mental notepad.

“Well, yes, but that’s because I’m not getting a lot of sleep since I keep waking up sweating and coughing because of the
me-no-pause
,” I explained slowly.

“
Or
it’s because you have the flu. There’s a nasty strain going around right now. I’ll prescribe you something that will help ease the symptoms, and if that plus a couple days of rest doesn’t take care of it, you can come back and tell me more about your menopause.”

“I guess we can give that a try for now, but I’ll probably be back soon for those tests,” I replied, eyeing her skeptically.

“Can’t wait.” She smiled and handed me a prescription.

About five days later, I received a call from her office, checking in to see how I was feeling.

“I’m okay,” I said to the receptionist, not wanting to fully admit that my menopause symptoms had completely cleared up since they had been treated with a flu remedy and some rest. “For now, anyway . . .”

“Okay, I will let the doctor know your flu is gone,” he said.

“That’s not what I—”

“See you for your next annual checkup, Sarah!” he said cheerily, and hung up.

Ugh, the whole office was so smug with the whole “flu” diagnosis. I sort of wished there was a way to catch menopause just so I could go back and tell her that her medical degree was no match for my superior Internet research skills.

If you think I learned to stop self-diagnosing after this incident, you are mistaken.

A couple of months later, I was feeling like I was being extra bitchy to people, so I decided to go to the doctor to find out what was behind it. I opted not to go to my gynecologist this time, fearing she might say something practical, like “Just stop being so bitchy,” so I asked around and located a doctor who specialized in hormone testing. I figured this way, when someone accused me of being a bitch, I could blame it on a condition that was out of my hands, and in turn make them feel bad for picking on me while I was sick and possibly dying.

The doctor’s office was located in Beverly Hills on the tenth floor of a ten-floor building, so I assumed this doctor was no shit. I mean, that’s like the equivalent of living in the penthouse, you know? However, when I arrived I was slightly disappointed to see that it was a tiny office and there were boxes piled up everywhere, leaving little room for seating.

“Are you guys moving?” I asked the receptionist.

“No,” she said flatly, not acknowledging the large box overflowing with papers on top of her desk. “Just bring this back
to me when you’re finished filling it out,” she continued as she handed me a clipboard full of forms.

I sat down on one of the two sad plastic chairs in the “waiting room” and propped my feet up on a box while I filled out the standard intake forms. I usually fly right through the columns, knowing the answer to all of them is “no,” because I don’t have any heart conditions (that I know of), I don’t have diabetes (that I know of), I’m not pregnant (that I know of), and I’ve never had surgery of any kind . . . wait, have I?

“Excuse me,” I called out to the receptionist, who was wrapping something ceramic in newspaper.

“Yes?” she asked, annoyed.

“Is Botox considered surgery?”

“No,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“I mean, it’s not like I’ve had a lot,” I told her, feeling the need to defend myself. “I just get a little between the eyebrows. It was starting to look like I had a number eleven on my forehead.”

“Uh-huh.” She was disinterested.

“I’d show you what I mean, but I can’t make the number eleven there anymore because of the Botox. That stuff really works, you know.”

“Uh-huh,” she repeated as she put the item wrapped in newspaper into a box.

“You sure you guys aren’t moving?” I asked, pressing her.

“We’re not moving. Are you done with your forms? The doctor will see you now.”

“Wow, that was quick,” I said as I handed her the clipboard. “Usually doctors take forever. This is great!”

But is it great?
I wondered.
Why isn’t he a little busier? At least make me wait twenty minutes for show or something.

Mrs. Personality led me into a room, took my blood pressure, and weighed me.

“One hundred thirty-five pounds,” she said in what felt like the loudest voice in the world.

“One hundred thirty-five?!” I repeated in a panicked whisper. “That can’t be right. I weigh one hundred and twenty-eight pounds. Weigh me again, I’ll take my shoes off.”

She looked down at my blue Havaianas, then back up at me. “You think your flip-flops weigh seven pounds?”

I really didn’t like this bitch. “Forget it. Obviously your scale is off. Or maybe it’s because of whatever is wrong with my hormones.”

“What’s wrong with your hormones?” she asked, genuinely interested now.

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m here. Can I see the doctor now, please?”

“He’ll be right in. He’s just finishing up some packing.”

“Packing? So you
are
moving!”

“No, we’re not moving,” she said as she exited the room.

What the fuck is going on in this place?

A couple minutes later, the doctor came in, planted himself in a little chair on wheels, and rolled over to the exam table, where I was sitting.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Corona.”

“It’s Colonna.”

“Ah. Good afternoon, Ms. Corona.”

“No, Co
lo
nna,” I repeated.

He just sat there blinking at me. WTF?

“Good afternoon,” I said, giving up.

“So what brings you here today?”

Ugh. I hate when they ask you that after you’ve just spent fifteen minutes filling out forms explaining what brought you there today—the same forms they appear to be studying while you repeat exactly what’s written down.

“I haven’t been myself lately; I think there’s something wrong with my hormones.”

“What do you mean by ‘haven’t been yourself’?” he asked, taking notes. Seeing him take notes actually made me uneasy. My gynecologist didn’t need to take notes; why did he?

“Well, I’ve been very . . . on edge.”

“What do you mean by ‘on edge’?” he repeated in the exact same voice in which he’d asked the last question.

“What do I mean by ‘on edge’?” I repeated sarcastically. “I mean that I am on edge . . . like more than usual.”

“Uh-huh, I can see that,” he said as he jotted something down.

“No, I’m not on edge right now, I just mean in general lately I’ve been a little more on edge.”

“You seem a little on edge right now, Ms. Corona,” he said with a weird lilt in his voice like he was kind of enjoying irritating me.

“Well, I wasn’t on edge when I walked in here, but yeah, you’re right: I’m a little on edge now.”

“And why do you think that is?” he asked as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his large nose.

Is this guy fucking serious?

“Dr. Goldstein—”

“Gold
berg
.”

“I’m sorry—Dr. Goldstein. I’m not really here to talk about my feelings; I mean, you aren’t a therapist.”

“Do you see a therapist regularly?” he asked as he jotted down yet another note.

This guy was really getting on my nerves. Yes, I was feeling extra bitchy. But this doctor was prodding me and I couldn’t figure out why. Everything he said was in a tone I couldn’t quite put my finger on but I knew I didn’t like it.

“Doctor,” I said in a very calm voice, “I’m not here to discuss my mental health with you. I feel like you want me to but I don’t want to do that. I’m just here to find out why I’ve been super bitchy lately and also how it’s possible that I gained seven pounds since I left the house this morning.”

“
Oh!
You’ve noticed weight gain?!” he shouted almost gleefully.

“Well, I noticed it when your receptionist weighed me, yeah.”

“Well, that is my specialty,” he said proudly.

I looked around the office and noticed several different posters for several different kinds of weight-loss supplements.

“Wait, is this a weight-loss clinic?” I asked, confused.

“No, no, no. Not at all,” he laughed (which was weird). “I see patients for all kinds of reasons, usually hormone-related treatments, which I assume is how you found me, right?”

“Well, yeah, I think so,” I said, trying to remember how I did find him. Was it Yelp? TripAdvisor? Craigslist?

“I specialize in hormone imbalances. It’s just that many times, especially in females, hormone imbalances lead to weight gain, and I have a very high success rate in helping women lose that extra weight.”

Well, that wasn’t what I had come in for, but I figured if I left the office with a few diet pills it wouldn’t be the worst outcome.

“But let’s focus on why you’re here, okay?”

“Okay,” I said, relaxing a little.

“So why are you here?”

I’m going to kill myself.

“The thing I said about being bitchy, remember? The conversation we had like four minutes ago?” I said, my voice rising in annoyance.

“Okay, okay, yes. That. All right, I’m going to do some general hormone testing and we will go from there. It’s possible you have too much testosterone in your system, which can sometimes lead to ‘edginess’ and even weight gain.”

“Well, obviously I have too much testosterone in my body, Doctor. Listen to my voice. And this afternoon I watched an entire hockey game . . . on TV. I definitely have too much tes
tosterone. How about you check my estrogen and see if it’s . . . there?”

“Oh, I love hockey. Which is your team?”

“I don’t have one! That’s why it’s weird that I watched an entire hockey game on TV. Seriously. I think I need estrogen.”

“Okay, we will get to the bottom of this. The nurse will come in and take some blood samples, then we’ll call you when the results are in, you’ll come back to see me, and we’ll go over them. Sound good?”

“Sure. Will you guys be here or at your new location then?” I asked, hoping to trick him into admitting they were moving. I’m nothing if not persistent.

“What new location?”

“Well, there are boxes everywhere. And the receptionist was wrapping stuff up. And she said you were packing . . .”

“Oh, no, I was packing for a weekend trip, that’s all.”

“Oh. Well, what is she packing for?”

“She’s just keeping busy,” he said as he smiled and walked out the door.

The nurse came in right after, took my blood samples, and told me I could go home. When I walked out, there was still nobody else in the waiting room. I looked over at the receptionist, who was now taking things
out
of boxes and putting them away. Clearly, business was slow. That couldn’t be a great sign for either of us.

A
week later, the receptionist took a break from wrapping knickknacks for no reason to call me and tell me my results were ready. Of course, she wouldn’t give them to me over the phone; I had to go in and see Dr. Annoying again.

“Good to see you again, Ms. Cabana,” Dr. Goldberg said as he sat on his little rolly stool and scooted over to greet me.

“Hello, Dr. Silverstein. So you have my results?”

“Yes.”

“Great. What do you got for me?”

“Well, your hormone levels are pretty normal for the most part. But I did find one thing that I need to inform you about.”

I took a deep breath and readied myself to hear about how I had a hormone imbalance that was making me edgy, but worse . . . also giving me cancer.