I have an appointment to see a new doctor. A specialist.
Because I have an interesting condition. I’d never heard of it. And couldn’t pronounce it.
My doctor had to write it down.
Yup, I know. If ingested it would make a dog barf.
Somewhere between 340,000 and 522,000 diagnosed cases in the in the United States. So pretty rare?
How I went from normal pink healthy lungs to a rare unpronounceable condition in my right lung is another story for another time.
And no, I don’t smoke.
But this story is not about my health but about the five page questionnaire I received by e-mail and had to complete before my first visit.
And off we went with the usual questions.
Name, address, phone, age, sex etc. etc. etc.
Somewhat odd that there was no query as to my marital status but whatever. I might even have rolled my eyes.
Same old, same old.
Until we came to Emergency contact.
Still no problem. Captain’s name and info.
Next – Relationship to Emergency contact.
I hummed under my breath. This means the form is nearly complete. Which means I can return to my book. And watching the ocean. And breathing in the sea air.
I scrolled down the list.
And scrolled back up.
And scrolled back down.
A few times.
No husband (or wife) category.
No spouse category.
I settled for Life Partner. (I hope.)
I’m not racist or homophobic or anti-LGBT or anything.
I’m so totally non-confrontational as to be considered a coward. With exceptions.
But I am a seventy-four year old woman married to a seventy-four year old man. For a long time now.
And I truly resent not finding a “spouse” category.
Have we become so “bleddie” politically correct in the United States that we are “throwing out the baby with the bath water?”
People still get married and gasp! They actually often remain married.
Please, allow us old-timers the small joy of proudly putting an X next to married and indicating “spouse” as an emergency contact.
Cyber Hugs and Blessings to All and Everyone. Two-footed and four-footed and even if it slithers. I like snakes.