I need a keeper. If I'd only had someone to do my thinking and talking for me, I'd have sailed through my doctor appointment this afternoon without forgetting half the questions I wanted to ask and half the symptoms I wanted to describe. I'm pretty sure I got the main points across, but I had less than ten minutes with the man himself, so there were bound to be things I left out.

"I get a burning feeling here."

"Anywhere else?"

"Well, sometimes here and here."

"Does it get better after you eat?"

"No, it gets worse."

"Anything else?"

"When the moon is full I grow fangs and thirst for blood."

"Sounds like some kind of infection."

So he sent me to the lab for a stool sample kit, which consists of a clear plastic baggie and three wooden coffee stirrers. I was expecting something more like a margarine tub. I mean, this is diarrhea we're talking about here — the really watery kind. (Sorry.)

The Lab Guy (that's what the receptionist called him, the Lab Guy) wasn't as helpful as I might have hoped. I guess I shouldn't have expected detailed instructions, and I suppose I can figure it out for myself. I just hope I do it right, because I'd hate to add this to the list of things I failed at.

Anyway, nothing was resolved today, but at least the doctor didn't tell me I should decide who gets all my St. Elsewhere videos, or to shred all my sensitive documents, or not to bother trying to score World Series tickets in October.

He didn't even tell me not to eat chili. (But I'm not tempted — yet.)

Naturally, this was the first day in weeks I've felt anything like normal (whatever that is). I waited three years to see that doctor. If I'd waited one more week, I might've been able to go another three years.