I
went to my doctor the other day to get my yearly check-up. I was not worried. I walked in with my head held high, feeling
confident that, in the intervening year, not much could have changed. Last year, I was, if not in the pink,
certainly rather far removed from the red.
“Ms.
Buckingham, the doctor will see you now.”
I
followed Florence Nightingale back to the examining room. I actually don’t mind going to see my
doctor. He’s one of the good guys, and
also happens to be a friend. I’ve been his
patient for 25 years.
After
I undressed and put on that “Too thin for paper towels, too thick for toilet
paper” Paris original with the open-air back, ‘Doctor Rick,’ as I like to call
him, sauntered in.
His
usual salutation is a peck on the cheek.
But
not this time.
This
time, I was greeted with gales of laughter.
When
he finally guffawed his last guffaw, he said, “OK, who are you and what have
you done with Carson?”
“You’re
a funny guy, Doc. Maybe you should
be writing comedy and I should be laughing at patients.”
“You
look terrible,” was his witty rejoinder.
“I’m
just a little tired.”
“A little tired! Run over by a tire, maybe!”
Keep
in mind that I’m paying him for this.
“Well,
let’s get some blood work done,” he sighed.
I’ll be back in 10 minutes.” Then
he stepped out and sent his nurse in to draw the blood. I finally figured out why he does this. I think he faints at the sight of the stuff. Whenever he has insomnia, he just drives to
the local emergency room, and doesn’t wake up until the next day.
Anyway,
the nurse, or ‘Nosferatu,’ as I have dubbed her, appeared with a needle and
two-dozen empty vials.
“Are
you really going to take enough blood to fill all those vials?” I asked,
alarmed.
“Hmmmmm,”
she hmmed, appraising me as an antiquarian would a badly worn sixth century
ottoman, “No, I don’t think so. With the
shape you’re in, it just might cause cardiac arrest.”
Another
comedian.
After
the blood was drawn, she brought me a rare steak to eat while the analysis was
being done. Twenty minutes later, Doctor
Rick returned.
“What’s
the black armband for?” I asked.
“Ummm,
I just didn’t want to wait until the last minute.”
“I
really think you ought to stop watching those M*A*S*H reruns.”
“Get
dressed and come into my office. We’ll
talk.”
Trepidation
began to creep into the proceedings. I
dressed and joined him in his office. On
his desk were scattered tasteful pamphlets about funeral pre-arranging and
burial plot availability.
Doctor
Rick took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
“To start with, your cholesterol is a little high.”
“How
high?”
“800.”
“800! At 800 my circulatory system should be
composed mainly of what . . . cement?”
“Actually,
everyone’s amazed that you can even think coherently at all.”
“I’m
a humor writer. I don’t have to think
coherently, so this is not a problem.
What else?”
“Well,
your blood sugar is a little high, too.”
“How
high?”
“You
shouldn’t be eating any foods that begin with any letter of the alphabet.”
Let
me tell you, it only got worse. I
finally left with 35 prescriptions, six Medic Alert bracelets, a lifetime
ambulance pass, and a strict diet that was comprised mostly of tree bark. I am spending the rest of my days sounding
like a maraca when I walk, a sleigh bell when I write, and a banshee when I
move my bowels.
Medical
care after fifty doesn’t really make you live longer . . . it just seems that
way.
