I sit in LifeLabs below Whole Foods, waiting for my bloodletting and feeling rather uncomfortable. Not because of the needle that was soon to be pushed into my arm, but because I had just come here, straight from my yearly physical and having my doctor push his finger into another part of me that wasn’t my arm.
“Knees up…aaaand smooth, no bumps, normal size for your age and.…”
Through gritted teeth, I interrupt, “Okay, Doc, do we need the colour commentary? …Wait, normal for my age? What does that mean?”
The snap of a surgical glove signals an end to my humbling, “You’re fine. Next time bring me flowers.”
I can only shake my head as I awkwardly put myself together, ignoring the gel residue down south that will be a reminder of this romantic date for the rest of the day.
“Are you married?” he asks.
“No, but I started seeing someone.”
“Why the hell would you do that?” he whips back. “Your life is ruined now!”
I laugh, and ask him, “Are you married?”
“Yes, and she’s destroyed my life.
“Oh no, don’t say that! Why?” as I willingly take his bait.
“She’s awful and she can’t cook. It’s like she’s trying to kill me. Even her toast has bones in it.”
I laugh, as he hands me my bloodwork requisition and I squish-walk my way out of his office to the street.
“Mr. Crichlow, we’re ready for you,” the lady at Life Labs announces to the room.
“David CRY-TON, yes, that’s me….”
“Room 2, David.”
I know the drill. I sit down, roll up my left sleeve. Lay it on the blue foam arm-rester thingy. The nurse technician sits down and asks the usual security questions to make sure I’m not some oddball masquerading as me to have their blood taken under my name.
“You’re painless, right? Because I hate needles, please say you’re magical at this and it feels like tickles and sugar sprinkles,” I whine.
“Oh, I can’t say that. But I’ll try. I would hate to be you. Needles freak me out,” she tells me.
“You’re kidding, right? Needles freak you out and this is what you do for a living? Dear God, please pretend I’m you and go easy.”
“Oh, I see who your doctor is. I know him! He was in here last week. He thought he was having a stroke.”
“Seriously? That’s awful,” I say. “He never mentioned that when I saw him today.”
“He was in the middle of talking and said he suddenly forgot what he was saying and couldn’t speak. He wasn’t having a stroke. He’s funny.”
“No kidding, that happens to me all the time. …He also told me his wife is trying to kill him with her cooking, even her toast has bones in it.”
“That’s how I’m trying to kill MY husband.”
“You sure you two aren’t married? You could be a comedy act.”
The snap of surgical tubing on my arm signals an end to my misplaced anxiety, “You’re all done.”
“I didn’t feel anything. I love you!”
“Buy me flowers.…”
This article was guest contributed by David Crichton.