Thursday, September 16, 2010

Going to the doctor

My doctor can roar like a Wookiee.

It's true. Plus, he knows how much I love Star Wars, so he'll see me from across the waiting room before I see him and randomly roar like Chewbacca seeing Han Solo in Jabba's jail cell, and I'll know he's about to cure me of whatever plight I've picked up this week.

Can you tell I was a sickly child? Well, now I am a sickly ADULT.

I went in today and had vampiric* amounts of blood siphoned away after being poked and prodded with various implements.

The results:

1. I am not dying. This is considered good news by many parties, including myself.

2. I am likely not about to go from "not dying" to "dying" on the Life-O-Meter. That is also good news.

3. Blood taken from me is being sent to another place, where other tests will be run on it, in hope of discovering if Something Serious is wrong, like gall bladder issues or IBS. However, this is less likely than it being All Dad's Fault, which I will explain in a bit.

4. I have shiny blue pills that will, perhaps cure me. If, that is, my stomach complaints are caused by my father's Fail genes. See, Dad has acid reflux issues, as well as all kinds of other issues, many of which are mental. Sure, I diagnosed all of those, but the diagnosis is sound. If the shiny pills work, I get the dual benefit of Health and the Pleasure of Blaming Dad.

That is where the funny starts.

My doctor said, "Okay, take these, and if you start feeling wonderful, it's because of that weak Y chromosome of yours."

*pauses while blog figures out why that qualifies as an MD Fail*








"Doctor," I said, "I think it will be hard to blame my Y chromosome. Being as I do not have one. But perhaps you mean I should blame the suckier of my X chromosomes? The weak and sorry-looking one I got from my father?"

Then, all the nurses, gathered around the Closet of Sample Medicines Worth More than Your House and Mine Put Together, laughed at my doctor. Then his Official Nurse came out from her Place of Authority, noticed that he had not marked the shiny blue pills he gave me down in the Book of Pill Samples, and yelled at him. That is her job.

What did I do then?

Well, first you have to know that my doctor has been my doctor since I was a squalling infant sucking in my first breath of oxygen. That's right: he delivered me. So he knows all kinds of horrible things about me and all the gross things that I have contracted in my lifetime. That gives us a kind of bond.

I turned to my doctor and I said, "You got in trouble! And I SAW."

Then he looked at me, grinned, and said, "You turd!" And went back to work.

Also, I now have to read Ulysses.

*I may have just made up that word. If I did, I coin it here and now, and if you see it in the OED someday, remember where it STARTED.

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