. Spinning .

The old furnace obviously needed to be replaced and the price of oil justifies the immediate expense.

But the new one’s starting to look like something out of a space station…

And the sign said long haired freaky people need
not apply

So I tucked my hair up under my hat and I went
in to ask him why

He said you look like a fine upstanding young
man, I think you’ll do

So I took off my hat I said imagine that, huh,
me working for you

                                            (© 1970, 2002 Five Man Electrical Band)

Never wanted to land a job mainly because I was a woman.  Don’t want to lose one now because of age bias either.  The above lyrics were part of the movement years ago fighting discrimination based on appearance and I wish it were so easy now to tuck the wrinkles "up under my hat" just to make sure that I’m not getting a job because I’m not qualified for it, rather than any other reason.

I tend to discount any allegations of age discrimination with the same attitude I took decades ago towards sex discrimination; if you’re good, they’ll want you regardless.  But I’m hearing more horror stories and whispers that it’s difficult to ignore some of the signs.  A young girl, likely a teen student herself, without a word takes my application and nods that she’ll give it to the proper party.  Why do I doubt it?  Why did the giggles I heard as I walked away make me wary?

Somehow I’d still rather believe it’s my ineptitude that keeps me out of the running.  If I thought otherwise, I’d likely be tempted to test the system and I really would rather not know.

Can I talk to you about. . . breast tests and colonoscopys?

What started it all was my cardiologist’s insistence that I find a primary care physician.  I’m not a doctor person so I’ve been able to make do with a pediatrician and graduated to a gynecologist whom I forced to look above my chest and below my knees which the patient man acquiesced to do for the past many decades.  So two years into my association with the heart guy I finally agreed to find a local internist and for the first time went to a regular doctor thinking I’d give my name, rank and serial number and never see again.  But she sent me for all kinds of tests. 

Now the mammogram I usually managed to stretch into four-year visits but of course, she ordered and made the appointment. I went.  I ended up having ultrasound as well (I have dense breasts?!?) and they found a node.  Oh no, I thought, recalling a double needle aspiration done six years ago which recall does not produce happy memories.  The needle aspiration was scrapped when the nice doctor got a look at the screen and proceeded instead with a biopsy that ended up taking it all out anyway.  Results negative, and I’m good to go for another year (or if possible, three or four if I can swing it).

Then, the dreaded word "colonoscopy."  Talk with friends who’ve had it done convinced me to cancel.  The gallon of stuff you must drink to clean you out tastes like potting soil, said one, so I should ask for the quick fix instead.  A nurse friend told me that it’s not as accurate and might entail another test should there be a question.  I opted for the gallon of potting soil.

It actually didn’t taste all that bad and there’s packets of fruit-flavors to add to the brew.  Unfortunately, the end mix tastes like lemon flavored Alka Seltzer which I’ve always hated because I can’t stand salty-sweet together.  (Note to pharmaceutical companies: include one packet of beef or chicken flavoring and you’ve got yourself a best seller.)  I won’t go into the particulars, but I didn’t bother putting my jeans back on for three hours between the kitchen and bathroom.

The colonoscopy was the easy part.  Really.  Here’s why:  they’ve got some good drugs.  I remember answering three simple questions and seeing what couldn’t possibly be my bum on the color screen and then being gently awakened and offered my choice of beverage and breakfast, choosing ginger ale and english muffins (the good ones, Thomas’ with nooks and crannies–how apropros) and getting dressed and flying out of there the second I saw my husband’s smiling face.

They gave me papers and pictures and instructions for a higher fiber diet–I did have a polyp which they removed.  No pain, no discomfort, no real embarrassment (I told them that while I may have farted while asleep, there was no way I’d be passing gas in their presence if I could help it, which strangely disappointed them).  Too soon the drugs wore off and reality returned but still, no pain and I’m just a bit tired.

So do it.  Make those appointments and get it over with.  The colonoscopy’s a ten-year thing (which is the only reason I agreed to it) and you’re bound to forget how bad that sh.. tastes by then.  I realize not everybody has insurance coverage on this but more and more insurance companies cover it as necessary preventive care.  I’m glad it’s behind me (no pun intended) and I’ll get on the Katie Couric bandwagon against colon cancer and doing whatever you can to catch something early enough to make a difference.

I hope I can find this post in ten years when I’m balking again at going.  But really, it’s no big deal. Make your appointment today.