I have a theory to explain why our physicians put us through tests in order to determine our health status.

Because they can.

How else to explain my recent experience with our health-care system?

First, I had to be cleansed, inside and out, if you get my drift.  I was left in a position where I could no longer give one or hit a fan with anything and I was scared to the point that I had been robbed of any claims of ownership.

It really wasn’t too bad but it was not my first choice of social activity for the weekend. 

The next step proved to be more difficult.  By the time I had completed the test Monday night, I had fasted for 46 hours.  I know a lot of religions as well as fitness experts advocate temporary fasting as a means to an end but it was not, by any means, a spiritual or physical healing event for me.

I don’t know about your home but my house is full of food.  Everywhere you look, there is food.  Those pretty colored balls in the crystal bowl?  Chocolate.  The healthy snacks set out for the children?  Nuts.  The freezer?  Full of Thanksgiving leftovers.  

I tried to watch television but it made it much, much worse.  My Chargers lost AGAIN and I had no munchies to soothe my pain.  There is small comfort in chewing one’s own tongue. 

Every other commercial was for fast food or alcohol, (neither of which I was allowed) or a product guaranteed to cure my erectile dysfunction.  And since I was watching live TV, I could not fast-forward through any of them.

I so love my DVR.

By 4:00, I was snarling.  I don’t even eat that often normally but being told I couldn’t do it turned me into a grouch.  My family returned with take-out for dinner and when they started to crunch their chips I announced I hated them all and stormed off to the bathroom to get additionally cleansed.

The next day I could not have any fluids.  My lips chapped, my hair turned to straw and my skin looked like shrink wrap. 

I knew I was losing it when I was doing laundry and openly wondered if the dryer lint was edible.  I caught myself staring into the refrigerator considering if my limitations allowed me to lick the cheese.  My God, even the cat food smelled good.

Dignity?  Grace?  Composure?  Zing out the window.  But now, you see, I was ready for the medical test.

And that’s just where they want you.

I am convinced there are members of the medical profession who are still bitter over all those years of school and hard work and are determined to vent their frustrations on the general public. 

You know why they run out of the room once they get you set for an x-ray?  To laugh at you.

“This time I’m going to make her stand on one foot and yodel while the machine squeezes a part of her body to the size of a Tic-Tac!  Bwah, ha, ha, ha!”

Just in case I showed up for my exam with any shred of modesty left, they greeted me with a small tome of forms to sign and The Gown.

When Queen Elizabeth gets medical exams, I seriously doubt they give her one of these gowns.  I’ll bet the ones they give Her Highness have more coverage, are in flattering colors and have a matching hat.

But I am not Queen Elizabeth so I got your typical examination gown. 

These gowns are guaranteed to show your bad moon rising.  You will flash your dark side of the moon and the light.  You will moon dance with every breath you take.

For further humiliation, they said I could still wear my socks and bra and with those three items of apparel on my empty, dry and spanking-clean body, I struck the best fashion diva pose I could Vogue and was wheeled in for my procedure.

The doctors were delighted the results of this exam showed nothing was wrong because it meant they could schedule me for more tests.

I can’t wait to see the outfits.