So, I've been officially diagnosed with ADHD. The psychologist says it's more A than H but "mixed". That's fine and dandy. I was expecting it. But I was also diagnosed (accidentally) with a fairly high level of anxiety disorder as well. The worst part is I don't think of myself as anxious, but apparently the experts agree that I am and I have no say in it.
Not only that, but, as I could have guessed, I might also have a form of narcolepsy. Now I can tell my father and make him feel guilty for torturing me when I couldn't get up all those mornings years ago. He probably won't feel guilty though. That's one of the benefits of being Estonian.
At least now I know what has been wrong with me my whole life. I know some will brush this off as an excuse for my lack of progress, but at least now I have some idea about why I've been such a freak all my life.
Most kids, by the time they're six years old, have an idea that they want to be firemen, baseball players, coat-checkers - whatever. I, however, wasn't sure about what I wanted to do with my life until I was nearly ten. I know, that's a dangerously long time to go without starting on a career path, but I have always been slow. I've mentioned this several times. I hope I don't have to say it again.
The idea of being a vet came to me while on one of those drives to Westchester with my sisters or my father - I don't remember who it was because I was too busy looking out of the window. I was, as usual, scanning the sides of the highway for dead animals.
I used to tell myself, "Don't look out of the windows. You'll just see another dead dog or deer or turkey and feel sad for the rest of the day!", but I always looked anyway.
On nearly every ride north, there were at least three dead animals on the way to wherever we were going. Usually it started with a dead dog. Sometimes there might have been a few dead cats and squirrels but I had never liked them and so I didn't notice. The dead dogs, however, were another matter entirely. I was immediately stricken with thoughts of the dead dog's family and questions about his life with them.
Did they have a son in the family who loved that dog as much as I had loved my dogs? Did the dog go for a walk and never come back? Is the hopeless family going through pain, waiting for Fido to come home? Does Fido have a soul? Is he just a lump of dead meat or will he go to doggy heaven? If I go to heaven and my dog goes to doggy heaven, can he come and live with me or can I just visit him from time to time? Are there limits to how many times I can visit? What if there's a doggy hell? Can I visit him there? What if I'm in hell and he's in heaven? Can I see him? Can he come to me? Do they deliver in heaven? I guess hell would only deliver Dominoes and I could see myself getting really sick of that.
(Well, you see how the unselfish thoughts of concern for the dog's family quickly came back to me.)
On one of these trips, I decided I would help and save these poor dead animals. I'd become a veterinarian and bring them back to life! I'd be like Franken-Vet and bring happiness to all those in the world who'd lost their loved-pets! What a samaritan.
I was pretty sure of my calling for several years. Then my dog, Cheeks, got constipated. We took her to the vet and as usual, I liked to sit in on the examination process to see how the doctor did his thing. So, we told Dr. Scheiz that Cheeks hadn't had a bowel movement in over a week and that she seemed pretty upset about it. He immediatly put her up on his exam table and put on a rubber glove. I was young, but I had a pretty good idea that the rubber glove thing was not usual. However, I was not at all prepared for what would come next.
I remember Cheeks' face as the doctor lifted her tail. She was facing me and looking really pissed. Her nose started to flair and she stiffened up as the doctor stuck his right index finger right between Cheeks' cheeks and WHAM! POP! The crap just shot out of her little dog ass in all directions, onto the calm but disgusted face of Dr. Scheiz and the horrified face of his assistant. Up until that point, she had been all smiles but the assistant looked pretty grossed out now that her face was covered in doggy diarrhea. "There we go!", said the doctor. "She should be all better". It was kind of like there was giant bubble in there keeping her from passing the feces", he told us.
"Eww" - is all I could think. I was just imagining this huge chocolate-colored bubble of shit inside my little dog's ass and then the doctor's finger puncturing it and creating this giant explosion of hershey-squirt that nearly hit the ceiling and all four walls in his office.
I had to search for a new career. There was no way I was going to stick my finger in any dog's ass. Not even my dog's.
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