Apologies to Judith Viorst.
Just so you know, I survived all the tribulations that are to be detailed henceforth. So don’t worry.
I’ve talked before about how Karli wants me to get life insurance because this baby needs to be taken care of if anything happens to me. She actually wants to get it for herself, too, but insurance companies won’t insure pregnant or recently post-partum women, so she’s gotta wait. But that didn’t stop me!
So finally, after months of putting it off, we talk to the insurance company and they send us some stuff and they tell me that I need to arrange a quick physical to get checked out. So I call the nurse that they told me to, and I arrange an appointment. I ask how long it’ll take. “Just twenty minutes or so,” she says. “I just need to ask you some questions, get your height and weight, and do urine and blood testing.”
You need to what now?
We’re all friends here, right? I mean, what’s the internet if not a place where everyone is decent and understanding? So I feel I can tell you that I don’t do needles. And when I say “I don’t do needles,” I mean that there’s a chance I’ll faint and/or soil my undergarments and whatever furniture I happen to be using. And that’s if I’m around someone getting poked. If it’s me—well, that’s full-on freak-out time.
My appointment was scheduled for Thursday at 7 p.m., because that’s when the nurse was in town and available. Hooray rural areas! I was also told in my insurance packet o’ information that I wasn’t to have any food for 12 hours leading up to the test. Yeah, that’s right—NO FOOD ALL DAY.
Luckily, my wife is amazing and woke up to bring me a bowl of cereal at about 6:30 because she knows that even the thought of not eating all day isn’t going to drag my groggy ass out of bed that early in the morning—not on the worst day ever known to mankind.
I ate my cereal, and everyone was being super nice to me because they knew that this was the worst day ever (we’ll just start calling it the WDE for short). The dog was cuddled up next to me and the cat decided he wanted to get in some WDE love, too. For about a minute. Then he decided it’d be more fun to attack the dog.
Our dog is a sissy. She is afraid of the cat. And hard floors. And most anything else, actually. So when the cat normally swats her on her big ol’ nose, she just kind of takes it till he scampers off. If we’re nearby, we usually shove the cat to make him run away, which I did when he started attacking the dog yesterday.
Only, since it’s the WDE, the dog decides to retaliate. Right as I’m shoving the cat. Which means that instead of nipping the cat, my hand ends up taking the brunt of it. Which means the WDE starts off with a dog bite. Lovely.
I don’t know if you’re afraid of anything yourself,
hordes of internet admirers massive amounts of friends and family guy who’s trying to kill a few minutes on the internet at work, but if you are, you know that people will try to give you advice on how to cope. How to conquer that fear. How not to turn into a trembling, piss-stained mess when faced with that phobia. And you also know it doesn’t help. EVER.
People are well-meaning, but the simple fact is that if it were that easy to get over a phobia, you’d have ditched it a long time ago. So “just turn your head” or “think about something else” might as well be “ride your magic unicorn” and “give happiness a hug,” because it’s JUST. NOT. HAPPENING.
Luckily, by the time the appointment of doom happened, a few things had managed to tame the WDE a little bit. After the dog bite, I went and wrote a very funny post about reading that made people LOL. Most importantly, my wife LOLed, so she shared it on her Facebook (which I don’t have) and a bunch of people came over and read it. And Emily from The Waiting LOLed, and she shared it on Twitter and I got some of the residual glow from her post-Freshly Pressed famousness. And as a result, more people visited here yesterday than ever before*! So howdy, new readers, if you decided to stick around. And thanks to the people who are more well-liked than I am for sending people here.
*It’s still a pretty pathetic head count my most bloggers’ standards, but I’m baby-stepping it here.
Also, unexpectedly, I actually did have some things to take my mind off the terrible, awful thing that was about to happen to me. As you may have noticed, I said they also needed to do a urine test. So when 5:30 rolled around and I had to pee, I knew I had to hold it. Which means by the time my appointment actually started, my bladder was calling the shots. I needed to get it over with so I could just go pee.
Luckily, the nurse was very understanding. She took my blood pressure at the start, noticed it was abnormally high and decided not to use that measurement on the form. She also realized that the veins in my arm were too deep and she wasn’t going to be getting anywhere with them, so she broke out the smaller needle and just took it out of my hand, where the veins pop out a lot more. I could’ve hugged the woman. You know—if she weren’t wielding instruments of torture.
Don’t be fooled, though. I was still freaking out. Yes, I had to pee, and I was hungry, and the nurse was super duper nice about it. But when shit went down, I still had to go to my happy place till it was all over:
I think I carried myself off with as much dignity possible, given the situation. As much dignity as a grown-ass man on the verge of tears and doing the pee-pee dance can have. When it was all said and done, we finally got to go eat. And I stuffed my face with the ravenous gluttony of a high school football team. Then Karli talked me into banana splits at Sonic. “When you give blood, you get ice cream.”
“I didn’t give blood. It was taken.”
But damn that ice cream was good.