The Six Words You Don’t Want To Hear

I have not been feeling well for the past several days and finally relented and had Trina make me a doctor’s appointment. I am not sure why but I have a deep seated fear of doctors and hospitals. Perhaps it is because I have spent so much time there having something stitched, taped, cast, plugged or removed. Whether it was an emergency asthma attack or a broken bone from playing ball, I spent a lot of my childhood in a waiting room reading old magazines while waiting to see a doctor or nurse. Subconsciously, I think I have linked pain and doctors and would just as soon not see either one of them. Besides seeing me for my cold, I was also scheduled for a physical.


I scheduled my appointment as late in the day as I could possibly find. There is no reason ruining my whole day. I am not sure which is worse though. If the appointment was in the morning, I could at least get it over with. This way, I have to dread this appointment all day long. Besides, there is blood work to be done which means I have to fast for the day. Finally, it was time to go to the doctor’s office. The nurse led me back to the lab. They would take my blood first before I saw the doctor. I watched as she brought out what looked like a knitting needle and a 55 gallon drum to suck all the blood out of my arm and probably every other part of my body as well. She smacked my veins around before picking one out. I could have sworn I heard her cackle when she stuck me. I sat there watching the blood leave my arm and pour into the test tube. I had to laugh at the sight. The nurse looked at me and asked why I thought this was funny. I explained that my wife was wrong, I didn’t bleed Diamondback purple. It was red just like everyone else’s. I seem to be the only one who had a sense of humor. Well, at least that is what I thought.

After draining all my blood, I was led into an examination room to wait for the doctor. The wait seemed longer than an Armando Reynoso pitching start but finally the doctor came to see me. Things went fairly well, he took my temperature, listened to my heart and lungs all the while making notes. Even my blood pressure was normal. When he was finished, we talked for a while as he asked me questions about my health. As he was wrapping up his examination, he asked me my age. I explained I was 39 and would be 40 in March. “Oh.” he said. “Well, for all intents and purposes you are 40 then. In that case, there is one more test that we need to conduct.” All of the color left my face when he uttered the six words that every man dreads hearing from his doctor, “Drop your pants and bend over.” I tried to assure him that this was really not necessary. I was pretty sure that with some rest, plenty of liquids, and some rest I would be feeling fine. He was determined that a test for prostrate cancer was necessary. I frantically tried to come up with a series of questions or justifications for why this did not need to happen. My doctor must have been a telemarketer in a previous life since each argument was met with the appropriate response thereby leaving me really no alternative. I had just one last question for him, “Please tell me your favorite movie is not Deliverance. You don’t own a banjo do you doc?


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