Today was the day. The one day of the year where I urinate in a cup and give it to someone to examine. Yup, I had a Doctor’s appointment. An “annual check-up” is the medical term, I believe. Heck, we might as well just call it a “season finale” because who knows what could happen.
I don’t like going to the Doctor’s. That doesn’t mean I’ll refuse to go. I just don’t like going. Does anyone enjoy going to a Doctor’s appointment? Maybe kids do. I know I did when I was little.
I’m sick? Great! Let’s go sit in a crowded waiting room with other children who are coughing up the next worldwide disease! I know that may sound like sarcasm, but it’s not.
The dreaded waiting room was worth it because it was just a minor inconvenience that got in the way of obtaining the coveted banana medicine from the Doctor.
Banana medicine was the best. It probably still is the best.
And then I got to the age where I was “too old” for banana medicine. Those might be my two least favourite words when put together – “too old”. That, and “No Pizza”. Rip my heart out, why don’t you!
At this point, going to the Doctor’s office started to become a pain. Sitting in the waiting room next to Mr. Phlegm and Ms. Cough-up-a-lung was no longer worth it. Because after all was said and done, I wouldn’t even get to go home with banana medicine.
There was no reward for the (health) risk.
So I got to an age where if I got sick, it wasn’t the end of the world. A trip to see the Doctor wasn’t necessary. I could just stay home from school, sit on the couch, play video games, and worship Bob Barker on The Price is Right.
Bob Barker and banana medicine have the same effect on the common cold. Trust me.
Since I no longer had to go to the Doctor when I got sick (unless it was serious), the only time I went to visit the jungle gym of germs was for an annual check-up.
Man, I hated it. Especially during my early teenage years where I had to sit among children less than half my age. I didn’t fit in. Literally. I was tall.
The waiting room was a menace. I witnessed all of it. All. of. it.
Children ran back and forth, only stopping to wipe their overflowing nostrils on the seat. They touched a fish tank with their hands and then put them in their mouth, as if they were cinnamon rolls. Some opted to put toys in their mouth.
And then there was the kid who would have the audacity to steal another kid’s toy, only for the mother of the victim to say, “Bobby has something-really-contagious-itis, your son probably shouldn’t touch that.” Gee, thanks Mom! You’re a hero! You got the toy back, while simultaneously telling the entire waiting room they should probably stay about 1000 metres away from your kid.
Quick, camera two, pan over to the contagious kid!
“There he is now in his natural habitat – the Doctor’s office. A flood falling from his nose and mingling with the saliva hanging from his mouth. Oh no, he wiped it with his hands. Folks, it appears we have a tsunami on our hands. Sit tight.”
Whenever the nurse finally called me in to see the Doctor, it felt like I had won the lottery. All that was missing was confetti.
Thankfully, these snotty experiences came to an end. Thank you, aging!
As horrific as the waiting room at the Doctor’s office was, everything else wasn’t that bad. I never received any bad news from my Doctor, other than the occasional mention of watching what I ate (Ha, as if I didn’t).
I have never been afraid of needles. Ever since I was a little kid I would just stare at it. I always found it funny how the nurse would try and distract me, right before they stabbed me in the arm.
How could you possible distract someone from that? It’s like saying, “I’m going to push you down the stairs, but as long as you look at the pizza waiting for you at the bottom, you will not feel a thing.”
Okay, maybe in that instance you wouldn’t feel a thing. It’s pizza. But you get the point.
Now then, back to today.
Whenever I enter a Doctor’s office now, I carry with me an ounce of trepidation. Don’t worry, it doesn’t tip the scale when I stand on it.
But I always walk in and wonder how I will walk out. Will it be with a hip in my hop, or not?
Basically, one question needs to be answered. A rhetorical one. I ask it, the Doctor answers it.
“Is there anything wrong with me, yet?”
That’s all I really want to know. That’s all any of us want to know.
That’s why I don’t like going to the Doctor’s. I like my Doctor. I’m thankful he makes sure I’m okay. I just don’t want to hear bad news. No one does.
Luckily, my urine sample acts as a crystal ball of sorts. So, too, does my blood sample.
But before I get to the blood test, I want to say something.
I got on the scale today and…it told me to get off. Just kidding. It told me I weighed 15 pounds less than I did last year. I thought that was pretty cool.
The pizza and donut diet works, I guess.
Anyways, to the blood test!
I sat in a room for an hour waiting for blood to be drawn from my arm. I was the youngest person in the room by about 30 years and yet my knees were the only pair in the room that cracked when I stood up. I’m old.
Everyone in the room looked dreary. We were all fasting. I hadn’t had food or water in 14 hours. And guess what sign was on the wall in front of me?
“No food or beverages permitted”
Come on! Talk about spiking the football. Which got me thinking. They should set up a refreshments table in these blood clinics. No? Bad idea? I tried. I was hungry.
At one point a delivery man walked in with square bags filled with medical equipment. I
thought was praying they were pizza bags – the kind that pizza delivery drivers bring to your house. I was wrong. I was sad. Again, I was hungry.
I made friends with an older lady sitting next to me. Naturally, we bonded over complaining about how long the wait was.
What else do people bond over in waiting rooms?
She said, “When they call your name, it’s like winning the lottery.”
I couldn’t agree more.