Scrapyard Challenge [by Laura]

Some people like to talk about their health problems. It's like talking about the weather; something for your mouth to do while your brain goes on a holiday. I hate to gloat about mine; there is a certain type of person you never want to be associated with. If I do bemoan and bitch about my pains or discomforts, it means I really am in pain. In fact, I experience pain a lot. Most of it, I'm sure, is caused by her.

"I have to leave early because of this stomach ache," she announces, "My periods just ended yesterday!"
"I thought PMS happens before periods?" Another colleague comments, and is cheerfully ignored.

She is a colleague. Exotic and rare diseases, as well as common colds and aches, aren't a mere discomfort to her; they're her ticket to get a monthly salary for staying at home for most of the time. We don't mind... No, really. It's okay to lift her workload to get a few moments of silence in the office.
My frequent headaches must be caused by all that grinding of teeth.

"I have a terrible, terrible headache," she whines.
"Here, have a Paracetamol," I say.
"No, I really must go home. You don't mind, do you?"
Of course not.

My knees, back and stomach hurt. I suspect I'm getting an ulcer, and sometimes there's a pain in my chest which could either be heartburn or a prominent heart problem. The only thing I can think of is: This shouldn't be happening! I haven’t even turned twenty-five yet!

"If I've been a little cranky the last two weeks," she confides in the early hours, while the office is still empty, "I haven't been to the toilet for two weeks."
"Uh, been there," I mumble. Later on she excuses herself early to go home.
"The medication started working!" She calls out as she rushes towards the parking lot.
I block out the uncalled-for images by drawing little hanged men to decorate the invoice I'm working on.

I'm very hard to cater for, because of my multiple allergies, but that's only one of the reasons why I tend to bring my own lunch to work.

"I have a yeast infection down there," she says at the lunch table. "So please understand if I'm a little annoyed."
I start to hum a little tune and stare fixedly out of the window.

As genetic heritage goes, I can look out for several types of cancer - cancer in the bone, in the breast, in the glands, in the lungs… No testicular cancer in my family, though. Go figure - it's the only one I can't get.

"I have a urine infection," she explains breathlessly, "So I can't come in."
Two weeks pass.

There's adult diabetes, heart problems, high blood pressure, obesity, sleep apnea, asthma, depression. Rheumatism in at least two generations in my direct maternal line.

It can't be helped, I tell myself - I've been built out of scrap parts.

"It's a very rare neural infection," she explains as she detaches herself from any responsibility. "It takes up to three or six months to heal!"
It's OK. I suffered from insomnia anyway so I fixed all problems with her accounts. Again.

My experiences with doctors simply discourage me to burst into the office of my GP and demand a proper examination.

My doctor in Finland had the reputation - and he certainly did this to me every time - of asking all female patients to remove their shirts regardless of the anatomical context of the examination; my doctor in Scotland diagnosed eczema as scabies and prescribed me with a head lice shampoo; the nutritional therapist I saw because of all the things I can’t eat advised me to "eat variably" - to mention but a few.

Besides, who knows what a full medical examination would find?

"Iieeawww," she intones with her nasal voice, "I'm so bloated! Do you think I've gained weight?!"
I glance at her 100-pound figure and shrug non-committally.
"I'm going on a diet!!"

My current doctor has got a bona fide miracle cure - it's simply too wonderful for words. Depressed? Is your back hurting so that you've taken to sleeping on the floor? Have any problems with skin, eyes, blood pressure, stress? Are you a multiallergic trying to diet? Do you continuously fail to lose weight?

No problem, my doctor says with confidence borne of never-had-to- diet-in-my-whole-life, Lose weight!

"I have to leave early on Friday," she warns me when she returns from another sick day.
"Really."
"Yeah, I have a dentist’s appointment. The thingy ogg magg dooghd iggh e’e egg ogg, see? It’s really gross!" She wipes her finger on the back of the chair.
I smile and nod. Only two more days and she’s changing jobs. I can feel that ulcer starting to heal already.