Some days I find myself re-evaluating long-held truths in a blink.
Today's used truth (for sale cheap) is that of exposure. Until recently, it had always held true that the more I was exposed to something, the less unpleasant it became. My terror of gynaecologist and gynaecological invasion went from abject trauma to banal acceptance over the course of the last pregnancy, my childhood associations of abuse with the smell of garlic is all but dissipated -- Dave's bombarded me twice this week with over a tablespoon of garlic in my dinner and I ate it with pleasure rather than turning up my nose and heading for sugar.
In any case, the grand revelationness of this morning's truth is no biggie, I'm just nervous about Yet Another Afternoon At The Hospital.
Oh yes, we're doing another round of blood pressure explorations. September's tragedy led me to sign up with Dave's GP rather than the rather inattentive local clinic doc, and the new doctor's eyebrows shot up at my blood pressure and off we went again to another cardiologist.
Cardiologist numero dos (that's number two in pidgin monstre) was fortunately familiar with cardiologist numero un, so he's not putting me through the morass of last year's renal scanning pain. Given that this is contrary to the medical profession's inability to communicate effectively (hence my entire line of work), I'm rather impressed with the arrogant fuckwad. At least he's willing to read my file rather than just send me for an unecessary repeat of testing.
Consequently, all he's ordered so far is a thyroid ultrasound (which happened last Friday, was unecessarily brutal despite my protests, and due to which I still have a fearsomely-feel-like-a-choking-victim tender neck but which showed definitive "normal" results AGAIN), and a 24-hour blood pressure monitor, which gets put on this afternoon. I can't imagine how they can foul that up, but due to the past year's experience I am already working myself up about it.
Yup. Calm cool and collected monstre is quivering with jitters about having my fooking BP measured. What I like less than doctors at this point, is how emotionally distraught I have allowed myself to become about doctors (and hospitals).
Grrr.
And in other news, I walked into work this morning convinced that I was still living in France. My routine in France was utterly different -- I was neither in a house, nor was there a Dave to kiss goodbye every morning -- but by the time I got to work I was convinced I was still working at Kyr*ba and wandered off the elevator (even though I took the stairs to the fourth floor there) into my 17th floor office and was about to walk up to my coworkers and start greeting them with a two-cheek bise. In France, that's the mandatory way to say hello be you friend or coworker; and at all the places I worked out there (regardless of city) the routine was the same upon entering the workplace; stop at every desk and say good morning and kiss each man, woman, and boss on both cheeks. People who got to work earlier than others had fewer rounds to make but could expect later arrivals to be by their desk for the next twenty minutes.
I've maintained that habit here to a point -- I make a point of stopping by each desk to say good morning and exchange pleasantries with everyone in my team. This morning on my rounds I had the constant uncontrollable urge to be kissing people.
I'm amused by how amused my peers are at my retelling of this odd compulsion, but I am more amused by how oddly different affection routines become in the countries I've lived in. In Canada, the hug has been prevalent -- but the larger the city the greater the restrictions on who and when you hug. The fact that most of my coworkers here in the big T.Dot hug me is apparently disconcerting to other people, as well as to the people feeling compelled to hug the mosnter! In France, you kiss everyone -- which means you get close to everyone, but hugs are so rare as to be all but reserved for couples. My crazy Canadian habits disconcerted even greater a number of my pals out there as they observed their own habits changing by the compelling warmth afforded by actually touching their friends.
In Montreal, there was an even more confusing pattern -- hugs for friends, two-cheek bises for friends and acquaintances, hugs with occasional coworkers and some people hugged a looser definition of friend than others. My hugging habits have always been chaotic and overly affectionate, thereby skewing my own observations, but...
Perhaps this pre-tea meandering then is losing information value swiftly.
When I chose to return to Canada from Paris, my biggest claim was that I wanted to return to a country where I could touch my peers.
This morning I found myself missing the bises, and wondering why so many people I know have become increasingly wary of being touched affectionately.
And then I realized that I have become increasingly wary as well, despite my affection-slut status.
And then I realized, that like many of my previously hardcore observations -- it isn't the cities anymore. I can't blame my discomfort on the cities, the countries, or on any one person. It has become increasingly pointless to point fingers.
It's not Toronto, or Montreal, or Paris or Limoges or London;
it's humans, and I just have to keep learning to live with them and be one myself.