The One with TMI

It’s the tissues, okay? That’s what gets me.

Listen, before I get too far into this, I have to issue a TMI warning. That’s “too much information” for those falling behind on the flood of abbreviations we’re deluged with these days. TMI. I’m about to overshare. Stop now if talk of body functions (done subtly, or at least without too much gross stuff) bothers you.

This past year has physically been the most challenging of my life. I’ve been poked, prodded, sliced, stitched, and shuffled in pretty much every possible area between my neck and just below my, um, crotchular region. I didn’t look up “crotchular,” so it’s likely not a word because there’s a squiggly red line under it as I write this, but we can all agree it should be added to the dictionary. If "decarceration" and "adulting" can make it in, why not crotchular?

Anyhoo, as I said, it’s been a rough year. I’ve met more physicians and specialists than I ever wanted to. At this point in my life, I choose my doctors based on three specific criteria:

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