Ugh, the movie I’m referencing in the title of this post was truly awful; so much so that it’s become a running joke in my house. No idea why I felt it necessary to foist that tripe on you guys. Sorry.
So this morning saw me visiting the doctor for my annual check-up, lipid panel, and pre-Daphne vaccinations. I had no idea that whooping cough was still a thing, but apparently it’s the only vaccine I required for safe baby handlin’.
My doctor also gushed over all the weight I’d lost in the past 12 months, and thanked me for making his job so easy.
You see, at this time last year I weighed 248 lbs, had a waist size of around 38-40 inches, and my triglycerides/bad cholesterol were through the goddamn roof. I.e. Jeremiah was a fat brownie hound, and a heart attack waiting to happen.
As of today? Well I’m still awaiting the results of the lipid panel, but my weight is 195 lbs and my pant size is down to a 33. So 53 lbs, or roughly 20% of me, has disappeared in one year. Pale Leo.
The interesting part of the whole visit was when I was giving blood for the cholesterol test. Apparently it was “bring-an-intern-to-work day” at the doctor’s office, as a very nervous girl explained that she was going to be the one to take my blood:
“But Mr. Shaw I am student. Is okay with you?”
“Okay. Tank you. Yes. Nay, Ebola.”
“Wait. Come again?”
“Bola. Name is Bola?”
“Oh! Your name is ‘Bola.’ Got it.”
“Yes. What arm you want blood?”
“I’m sorry, what arm do I…oh, what arm should you stick? How about the right one?”
I cuff my right sleeve up for her and she prods it with her thumb for a few moments. She then tells the woman supervising us, “No, can’t do.”
The real nurse blinks at her a few times and explains that no, she can’t simply give up, and that “the patient” [nodding toward me], “still needs their blood drawn. Try the other arm.”
“Okay.” Then she turns to me again, as if I didn’t hear any of this exchange.
“Sir, I am need to try other arm? Is okay?”
“Hey. You no phlebotomy? I no phleboto-you.”
I grin at both of them as I start to roll up my left sleeve. They both stare back, faces blank.
“Nevermind. You probably get that joke all the time. The left arm would be fine.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
They discuss the fecundity of a couple different vein choices, before finally settling on one.
And, fortunately, she one-shots the vein and my sweet, life-giving blood courses out and into a cold glass vial. The first one fills just fine, but as she’s readying the second, I feel a slight twinge of pain. Then, as the second one starts to fill,
I look down just as a horrid slurping sound, not entirely unlike Audrey II finishing the last sips of an Awful Awful, emanates from the general vicinity of my arm.
Bola looks at the nurse next to her and says, “Okay, it fall out.“ Then she shrugs and yanks the entire contraption from my arm. A small spurt of blood hisses outward and the other nurse grabs a gauze roll and quickly covers the puncture wound in my arm with it.
Visions of exsanguination begin to form in my mind, and I realize that I just verbally agreed to allow a complete imbecile to poke a hole in one of my arteries, and what kind of asshat does that make me?
Bola apologizes profusely as they get the bleeding stopped, and then reaches for the same
rapier needle that she just used to poke me.
“We go again.” she says. And I swear I can see a faint hint of bloodthirst in her eyes.
“No. We’re done.” the real nurse says, “We have enough here for all three vials. Don’t stick him again. Thank you, Mr. Shaw.”
And, after she finishes bandaging my arm she says, “Okay Bola, we need his urine sample now, please.”
Bola picks up the cup and looks at me expectantly.
“I think I can handle this one” I say, and take the cup from her.
The rest of the visit went without incident, and hopefully tomorrow I’ll get good news about how I have a perfect number of gossamer thin, fluffy cholesterol particles happily carrying their vitamin/hormone payloads around in me, and how I won’t need to take things like statin pills for the rest of my life.