I usually dread my annual physical. I’m not crazy about doctors, and I’m not crazy about the nurses who work for doctors and their sadistic enjoyment of sticking people with needles.
But the truth is, I have a great doctor. He’s smart, and he doesn’t mind talking with me until all of my questions are answered. And really, the physicals aren’t that bad.
I’d go in a few days early and a pretty nurse would take some blood so that they can test my cholesterol, my sugars, my liver and all the other stuff they can tell about you from a few drops of blood.
The actual physical usually was a snap. The doctor listened to my heart and my lungs, felt my lymph nodes and tested my reflexes. He asks a bunch of questions, and then reviews my bloodwork.
Of course, there is always something the doctor liked fuss at you about. Mine used to say things like, “Maybe you should try a salad once in a while.”
The physicals have gotten even easier the last few years. After losing 50-plus pounds and eating healthier, my cholesterol and blood pressure have been fine the last two years, thank you.
Then came this year’s physical. First, the doctor wanted more blood than normal for some additional tests. Second, it wasn’t a pretty nurse who took my blood. It was a stern, older nurse who I took to calling Dracula because she had to stick me three times and use both arms before she found a vein.
Actually, I wanted to call her something else because (a) Dracula would have been more successful at finding a vein and (b) I was getting tired of being stuck. But I refrained. I didn’t think it would look good to get kicked out of a doctor’s office and I really needed the physical.
Third, the physician’s assistant, who met with me before I saw the doctor, kept using the phrase “people your age.”
“Have you had a flu shot? People your age should really get a flu shot.”
“Have you had a pneumonia shot? We really recommend that people your age get one.”
I wanted to reply, “Have you ever been smacked upside the head by someone my age?” But again, I didn’t, for the same aforementioned reason.
Then she asked me, “Have you had a tetanus shot lately?”
“Define lately,” I replied.
“Within the last 10 years.”
Well, honestly, I don’t remember when I last got a tetanus shot. It wasn’t in my doctor’s records, and I’ve been going to him for over eight years. So it was decided – almost entirely by the nurse, mind you – that I would have a tetanus shot. Apparently, you need to have a needle fetish to work in a doctor’s office.
The actual physical with the doctor went like it usually does. Lots of poking and prodding. And, of course, the final insult came when the doctor decided to poke and prod in a place where you really don’t want anyone poking and prodding, if you get my drift.
There was good news. My blood pressure was fine. My bad cholesterol has gone down, and my good cholesterol has gone up. My liver is fine. My kidneys are fine. My heart is fine.
“Everything looks good,” my doctor said. “You’re staying on your program and it’s working. So unless something comes up, we’ll see you next year.”
“It’s a date,” I said. “Tell Dracula I’ll see her then.”
