In this day and age of medical specialists – dermatologists, cardiologists, rheumatologists, gastroenterologists, obstetricians, pediatricians, on and on and on – I am an anomaly.  I have a doctor. A family doctor. No –gist or –cian at the end of her name. Just a family doctor.

Believe me, I am not passing judgment on medical specialists. I have a brother-in-law and a sister-in-law who are specialists, and far be it from me to suggest they are not important people in the lives of their patients. And darn good doctors.

I am simply saying I have just been happy with my family doctor.

She has been my doctor for 35 years. She delivered my son. She was his pediatrician. She has always been my OB-Gyn doctor. She was my first husband’s family doctor (I got the doctor in the divorce.) She is Bill’s family doctor and has been since we married 22 years ago. She didn’t do my shoulder surgery. She didn’t do my colonoscopy. She didn’t do my bowel resection. But there is little else she doesn’t do for me medically. She has poked and prodded and snipped and medicated me for half of my life. There is almost nothing she doesn’t know about me.

Except for one thing.

Every year for oh, I don’t know how long, I have gotten an annual physical. She does a very thorough job, examining nearly every part of my body. And every year for, oh, I don’t know how long, at the end of the physical she has handed me a packet to take home that contains the materials necessary for me to take the steps that will allow a lab to determine if I have colon cancer. I don’t want to go into a lot of detail, but it involves getting up close and personal with a bodily function about which I’d just as soon not talk about.

Every year for oh, I don’t know how long, I have taken that packet of information upstairs and set it on the counter that is literally steps from where I perform the bodily function about which I don’t want to speak. Every year I fully plan on THIS being the year I actually do what I’m supposed to do. And yet, every year it sits there for the entire year until the next year when I finally throw it away in order to make room for this year’s new packet. And every year, I smile at the doctor when she gives me the packet and promise her that , yes, of course I will perform the test. I think she actually believes me.

But guess what? This year, I ACTUALLY DID WHAT I WAS SUPPOSED TO DO. I gathered the necessary, well, material, put it in the little plastic tube, placed the tube into the addressed and stamped envelope provided, took a 15-minute shower, and tried to figure out what to do with the envelope.

“What should I do with the envelope?” I asked Bill (who, I feel compelled to add, has historically done EXACTLY the same thing as me with his little packet).

“Put it in the mailbox and put up the little flag,” he replied.

Which I did.

But I can’t help but wonder just how absolutely THRILLED our friendly neighborhood mail carrier is when she opens up the mailbox, takes out the envelope inside, and sees this……

“Oh Lord spare me,” she undoubtedly says. “The Civil Servant exam didn’t have a single question dealing with this particular type of mail. I am definitely not paid enough.”

Having conquered this particular fear, I am ready to begin monthly breast exams. Any day now.

And on a happier note, aren’t my tomato plants pretty? One cherry tomato, one Early Girl, and one heirloom tomato. Keep your fingers crossed. Last year my tomatoes were sad. I’m optimistic about this year.