Doctor! Doctor! Give Me the News!
After all of the usual thumping, poking, and listening he seemed to be relatively pleased, almost surprised it seemed to me, that I was still alive and kicking. I admit that I don’t kick as well as I used to, but I have the “alive” part down cold.
My blood pressure was up a bit. He was surprised. I wasn’t. I had absentmindedly downed a 20 oz. coffee this morning and the caffeine in those 20 ounces was enough to supercharge my heart for a few hours. If I’d gotten a refill my BP would have resembled the RPM of an Indy car. Fortunately I left that refill in the car for sipping on the way home.
I was truly relieved that my Doctor did not start doing his Donald Trump impression again. During my last two visits he had displayed his frustrated comedian side by doing impressions for me. He wasn’t any good.
He did ask me what Dawn and I had done for the Christmas holidays. When I told him that we had been in Texas and that it was a balmy 82 degrees on Christmas Day, I thought he was going to cry.
“Why did you have to tell me that?” said the Good Doctor.
“You asked me,” I said, which was close to the truth. I don’t care how long he’s been in this country – a guy from India does not easily enjoy our fine Midwestern winters. I don’t enjoy them either, but let’s not quibble.
Getting a positive nod from my Doctor is a good thing and actually makes me feel better. He nods and smiles and mumbles an occasional “Good, good,” and my spirits lift like a gray haired butterfly.
I will be seeing Doctor Number Two tomorrow and hopefully he will smile and mumble in my favor as well. He is younger and more Americanized than Doctor Number One. He’s more serious about everything, but I’m working on him. I’ll try to come up with a couple of kidney jokes for him.
I see my medical types every three months. It seems that they are afraid to give me more than three month reprieves. On the other hand, my Cardiologist has more faith in me. He doesn’t want to see me more often than once a year. It’s is either he thinks my heart is strong, or he just can’t stand to look at me. Either way is fine with me – and I don’t think he is all that much fun to be with either. When I do see him all he does is look at my feet and tell me to lose weight. Well, there’s a shocker. My feet are ugly and I’ve been chubby since the second trimester in my mother’s waiting room.
Once I see Doctor Number Two tomorrow I’ll be on my own until the next round of “Doctor! Doctor!” in April. In the interim I will take my meds, try to lose some weight, and not do anything fatal.
If I somehow manage to accidentally kill myself before April I don’t know what my Doctor would do. He would have to find a new audience for his terrible impressions. He might be forced to put the Cardiologist on his knee and start a ventriloquist act.