Three years ago, after giving a manfriend a vigorous ride through truly exciting terrain, a little surprise resulted:
HOLY CR*P!! RADIATOR FLUID!! ALL OVER THE PLACE!!!
But I have no radiator–where the heck was all that fluid coming from?
NOTE: Terms have been slightly modified to respect the more delicate sensibilities of male readers.
I stop at the top. There’s only a length of hoohah hose long enough to fit a man’s hahhoo.
With my two autocidal diseases, I’m used to surprises. I didn’t rush to the mechanic. The next day, I was still leaking fluid, but also still breathing. I made an appointment with a friendly hoohah-cologist.
After shallow spelunking, and some sealant application, she shrugged and said “With you, who knows? Hold off on fun, and try again in a few days.”
That many days later, after more sealant, she said “Jeez, I don’t have a clue. Everything looks really healthy up there.”
Over the past three years, that same hose has leaked again after fun. Not often. Just often enough to make the idea of dating a new guy awkward:
“Hi, New Dude. Uh…listen: There’s the minor matter that I might spring a serious leak if we go uphill or take it above 55…”
Three weeks ago, I lost so much fluid my date and I almost headed for the 24-hour emergency garage.
I later googled like mad and finally discovered that my symptoms could indicate The Big C: Corrosion.
Last year, repeated fluid diagnostics had indicated corrosion somewhere under the hood, but but no scans or mechanics had found any.
I think, instead of the Big C, maybe a teensy bit of misplaced radiator material at the top of the hoohah hose springs a leak–
IF I have fun the same days I’ve applied the recommended additive for older engines: S-Trojan.
(Forget that Pro-Jetster-Zone junk for engines THIS old!)
I really need to get this tricky problem solved. This is my only vehicle, and I’ve noticed most dudes aren’t real fond of hoohah to hahhoo radiator fluid transfer.
They pretty much freak out at the sight of a little coolant.
I needed to see a Master Mechanic.
I was nakey, but only from the waist down. I was to be checked out by a tip-top corrosion doc.
I wrapped my nakey bottom in the gown and waited, after running out into the hallway just long enough to pee–and to show off my designer outfit.
After about 15 minutes, the doctor entered. A tall, pleasant-looking man, he smiled and shook hands while introducing himself. Unfortunately, he shook like he wanted to best a male rival.
I inadvertently cried out from the pain. He asked “Did I hurt you?”. I answered “Yes—only a little.” My aching hand throbbed. He didn’t apologize.
I looked toward the door for the female resident or a nurse who’d join us, but the doctor sat down and asked his first question:
“I understand you believe you’ve had a hysterectomy?”
Me (calmly): “I find that question patronizing.”
Doc: “How is it patronizing?”
Me (teacher mode): “Well, what if I were the doctor and you the patient and I asked you: ‘I understand you believe you’ve had your testicles removed?’
Don’t you think you would remember? Do you think it’s different for women because our parts are internal?”
Doc (huffily): If you find my question patronizing, I don’t think this is going to work for either one of us.”
And he stood up and walked out of the room.
I was left there, pantsless and doctor-less. Still not knowing whether or not I have–corrosion.
I’d had to jump through hoops like a performing seal to get this appointment. There are very few Master Mechanics with his expertise. NOW what?!
Leaving the famous hospital (Geezers Die-Die, perhaps?), I spoke to a lovely woman in Customer Relations, asking: “What would you think if…?”
Upon hearing the question, the lovely woman’s face looked like she’d been hit in it by a hot iron. She called his words “unconscionable”.
My sister Meg said: “I would have been struck speechless.”
My friend A. said she would have had two thoughts in sequence:
“Does the doctor mean we women should have no confidence at all in any doctors or medical facilities? That when we’re told we’ve been given hysterectomies, we’ve instead been lied to and defrauded?
Or, does this doctor think I’m insane?”
My nurse friend in Pasadena laughed hysterically. She loved my answer, but said:
“You should have asked him if he was off his game because he was having his period!”
I snorted back. “I should have put on a dumb-bunny voice, leaned forward, and said:
‘Gosh, I’m really not sure, Doctor! Can you look down my throat and check to see whether my uterus is still down there?'”
The department mucky-mucks told me to write what happened, send it to the Complaint Department, and wait ten business days for a response.
Not one muck offered another doctor, or expressed concern over my still-undiagnosed condition.
This ugly visit happened the same week I learned a dentist has lied to and defrauded me, and
The same week a licensed plumber came to finish installing my dishwasher but instead flooded my kitchen floor.
Unending similar weeks led me to need a break from blogging. When one has bad luck magnetism as powerful as mine, one must sometimes withdraw to regroup and remuster the optimism required for normal human interaction.
I think of you guys, and miss your blogs, but I am still muster-less. I am even considering renewed thumb-sucking. What a warm feeling it was. I think I’ll give it a try tonight, while I hug my stuffed bunny. He has never let me down.