Journal of a Sabbatical

March 20, 2000

independently poor

Today's Reading: Early Spring in Massachusetts: from the Journals of Henry David Thoreau edited by H. G. O. Blake, The Plant Explorer's Guide to New England by Raymond Wiggers

I hate going to the doctor. Not quite as much as I hate going to the dentist, but enough that my annual checkup provokes waves of anxiety about what new disease/problem/symptom he'll find. The scariest thing is having my blood pressure checked. Well, no, having blood drawn for the "blood work" is worse, but the blood pressure check causes me more anxiety. For hours before the appointment, I try everything I can think of to command my blood pressure to go lower than normal so that when I freak out about being at the doctor and the bp goes up, it will only go up to normal. Of course this never works. The more I sit in the waiting room silently repeating "my blood pressure is 95/70...my blood pressure is 95/70...my blood pressure is 95/70..." the higher it goes. To make matters worse, today I decided I'd better skip the coffee because coffee of course raises blood pressure. Bad idea. By the time I am sitting in the waiting room for 45 minutes obsessing about my blood pressure, I have a raging caffeine withdrawal headache. Eek!

Anyway, I get to the office 5 minutes early for my appointment in case there's any paperwork. Fifty minutes of reading Newsweek and US News later, I get called in. Is there some rule that says your annual checkup doesn't count if it doesn't take a huge chunk out of your day?

The exam room is freezing cold. Even the nurses think it's cold. It's really cold when you're wearing one of those little gowns they give you. More sitting and waiting. In the cold. The actual exam takes maybe five minutes. Then it's over to the lab for the rest of it. You wait in line to wait in line for the lab. Seriously. They take your name and put you on a waiting list to register for waiting for the lab. There are no magazines in the lab waiting room, but there's a window that looks out over the entrance to the emergency room. That could be entertaining if there were any emergencies going on. But no, it's just a raw drizzly day out there.

When it's finally my turn, the lab tech draws what seems like a gallon of blood while I close my eyes, look away (with my eyes closed), and will myself not to faint. I start to sweat. My hands feel clammy. She tapes the little gauze doohickey onto the needle-prick spot and tells me to go pee in a cup. My hands are wicked clammy. You can tell what happens next, can't you dear reader? Clammy hands and a plastic cup... I drop the expletive thing in the toilet. After I pee in it. Oops. Now to get a drink of water and hope I can find some more pee in my system... I blow dry my clammy hands and try again. This time I don't drop it.

It drizzles as I walk to the parking garage. I look at my watch. Elapsed time from the scheduled appointment time to beginning walk to parking garage: 2 hours and 5 minutes. Boy am I glad this is only once a year. Where would I ever find the time to be actually sick?