Let’s Get Physical…

8 06 2009

I have always loved going to see my doctor.

For the duration of the appointment you get to be the centre of attention and you leave with a loot bag – once filled with lollies and stickers, now overflowing with prescription slips and free samples!

I have never understood the crazy people who avoid making an appointment at any cost. Until now.

Last week I skipped up to the reception desk to check in for my annual physical. The collection of my urine sample went quite smoothly, and I thought the new royal blue examination gowns really complemented my skin tone. Then my doctor, who is notoriously decades late for these things, arrived within seconds!

Everything was comin’ up Millhouse.

We laughed, we sighed, she updated me on the latest prescription fads, I did some bends and stretches, she copped a feel, yadda yadda yadda, my physical came to a close.

And just when I thought I was home free…

“I’m going to have them do some blood work after they take your height and weight. Just some routine stuff. Probably not necessary, but it never hurts to check!”

I should have heard them then. The evil, pitchy organs ringing out from the soundtrack of my mind declaring in three droning notes that this would bring my doom: BUHM, BUHM, BUUUUUUUUHM.

Too bad I have the hearing of a 90 year old who spent her childhood with her head in a roaring tuba.

The technician was a lovely lady, who was obviously as new to the clinic as she was to North America. Struggling with her English, it took her about 10 minutes to figure out how to read my height. 

Then she sat me down to take my blood.

She tied up my arm with the mini-Pilates stretch elastic, and smacked at my veins as if to say: There’s no wake up call like a good bitch-slapping ladies!

I winced at the unnecessary physical violence, but knew it would be over soon.

“I have very small veins, so usually technicians use baby needles on me.”

“Oh yes yes. Velly good meeess.” She was smiling and nodding like a Kim Jong Il bobble head; ignoring what the Westerner was saying while unassumingly becoming a nuclear-sized threat to my well-being.

“Look it’s really important that you use the smaller needles or else you’ll have trouble drawing blood from the vein.“

“Okay meeeess, yes yes!”


Crap! You could have told me you were about to start!”

“Oooooh no meeeesss. Eeees no wohking.”

“Well you need the smaller nee–”


Shit! Can you please warn me when you are going to –”

[STAB!!! STAB!!! STAB!!!]


“Oooooh no no no. I no know why eees not wohking.” 

My eye fell from the confused technician, to my bleeding, limp arm. That was about the time I decided that I needed to leave my doctor’s office immediately.

“So…I think I’m going to come back another day to have my tests done.” I tried to keep my voice calm so as not to hurt the incapable technician’s feelings, but the room started to spin and I can’t quite recall if I was my politest self.

“You take this paypaaa, and when you readeeeey, you come back and see meee!”

Don’t think so Guantanamo Bay.

Thus ended my love affair with my medical practitioner. 

Thus ended an era. 

Thus ended my link to all things over-the-counter. 

Now I am left wondering, what ever is this pill-popping hypochondriac to do?




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