Today, I got an education. And I wasn’t at school.
It was time for my annual physical. I went to the doctor as a healthy, vibrant, only slightly angry, middle-aged man.
I left broken. And confused. And ashamed.
I arrived 20 minutes early for my appointment. Both bad ideas, arriving early and having an appointment.
It is always a terrible idea to show up early at the doctor’s office because I know that the wait will be at least 45 minutes. And the 187 pages of paperwork can only keep me occupied for so long.
After completing my thesis (paperwork), I took a moment (27 minutes) to read Highlights Magazine. This isn’t really relevant to this blog post, I just wanted to share my love for Highlights.
The wait finally ended and Nurse Evil took me to a cell in the very back of the office. I say cell because they always shut the door behind them when they leave. You think you can get up and walk out, but you can’t.
And believe me, I wanted to.
I asked myself why they had me walk 4 blocks to the back of the office, but that would become apparent to me in a few moments.
The doctor came in and talked about my blood pressure, exercise routine, and weight.
By the way I refuse to take advice on my weight (5’10”- 190 pounds) from a man who is 5’5”- 325 pounds… at least. He is about one cupcake away from getting rolled back into the sea.
When doctors graduate from medical school they should pass out mirrors along with the diplomas.
If I seem angry, you are quite perceptive.
After the doctor attempted to loosen me up with some small talk, he made his move.
No dinner, no drinks, no flowers. He simply said with a sadistic look in his eye, “How old are you?”
I responded openly and honestly (like an idiot). “I am 40.”
To which he replied, “Well, it’s time.”
I was hoping he meant… it’s time to conclude this appointment, or ask me how the school year went, or it’s time to talk about sports, or even it’s time to take a spoon and ram it in your ear.
Nope. I couldn’t get so lucky. At that moment I would have given my first born for a spoon.
He asked if I had ever had this done before. I am both married and a little shy, so of course not (does anyone ever say yes?).
Then he gave the order (because if he would have asked politely, I would have punched him in the neck and tried to outrun Nurse Evil to my car).
I will spare you the graphic details, but let’s just say, if I had tried to run, I may have tripped over my pants which were now located around my ankles.
At this point a very important question popped in my head. Why do doctors have such big hands?
The good news: I am healthy. The bad news: my life has forever been changed.
My old life, when I was innocent, pre-dates this horrifying incident, and now I must live my new life which is full of shame and horrific nightmares.
I would go take a nap and try to forget this terrible day, but I am afraid to close my eyes.
It did occur to me why they put me in the far cell.
They were trying to lower the chance that the children in the waiting room, who were enjoying the May issue of Highlights, would be frightened by my screaming/crying.
Didn’t work. I am a noisy one.
Thankfully, there are 365 days until my next appointment. And I am going to enjoy every precious second. Live life to the fullest.
Even if I am too ashamed to leave the house (I can’t run the risk of seeing the doctor at the grocery store… what if he wants to shake hands?)
And when I return next year, I am going to look Dr. Big Hands right in the eye and say “You look great. Have you lost weight? And I am 39 years old. Honest.”