I’ve had a backache for the past week. It started on Saturday. Being the worrier that I am, by the time Thursday rolled around I’d convinced myself that I had a tumor and would be dead by Monday. I spent Thursday night planning my funeral and writing my eulogy. I think I’m a pretty good writer and could come up with a eulogy that would have even the most stoic person sobbing and falling out in the isle of the funeral home be-wroth with grief.
In the mist of this pity party my husband had a great idea. “If it hurts so bad, why don’t you go to the doctor?”
I’m so used to not being able to go to the doctor that I’d forgotten I could now. So I got up bright and early the next morning and made a doctor’s appointment.
The doctor was a nice stout man with a small voice. After having me do some stretches to rule out muscle strain and testing my pee to make sure it wasn’t a kidney infection, he palpated my abdomen and said, “It seems like you constipated.” He told me to get some laxatives and sent me on my way.
I couldn’t believe it. What? Constipated. You’ve got to be kidding me! I thought. No tumor. No exploding ovary. This is what I get from the NHS. Constipated! I was outraged.
After much ranting and complaining about the doctor obviously not knowing what he was talking about, I drank some prune juice and let’s just say that my back pain has gone away.