This past fall I missed the
opportunity to have my health checked through the university’s “wellness
program” due to the fact that the university had me out of town on the day that
the check-up was held. But this past
week I had the opportunity to attend another check-up sponsored by the
university. For the most part these
check-up clinics are free to the employees of the university depending on the
tests that that the individual employee wants to participate in. Being squeaky tight when it comes to all
things financial I usually opt for those tests that are free. Typically I just go in for the blood screen
that measures something like a million possible diseases, illnesses, and
calamities that could strike the human body in a lifetime. There was no cost to this blood test.
Because I was having a blood test I
was not allowed to eat any food the twelve hours prior to the actual test. The last “real” food I had was at 6:00PM the
night before the test . . . sort of a “last meal” thing. Usually snacking between meals is no big deal—I
don’t do it too often, but because I was told that I could not eat anything
before the actual blood draw my body rioted.
No sooner had I pushed myself away from the table my body started
sending subtle hints that it was “hungry”.
My body is a liar, but my mind bought into it. Suddenly I was craving food . . . all sorts
of food . . . even food that I didn’t like.
I caught myself drooling as I watched those around me nibbling on this
snack and that snack. My disposition
changed . . . hunger created grumpiness.
I was a certified grump who was hungry!
Needless to say the twelve hours crept towards completion . . . any
other time it would have zipped straight toward the finish line. The family was not happy and even discussed
letting me sleep outside for the night.
With the rising sun I anxiously
awaited my health check-up despite my stomach lamenting that it was going to
collapse of starvation. Shoot, there is
enough fat on the ol’ body that the stomach shouldn’t have been hungry for at
least a couple of decades! Arriving at
the clinic the first thing I encountered was a spread of food . . . a
smorgasbord of delectable fruits, bagels, sweet rolls, and yogurt . . . which
only increased the lamenting of the stomach.
This did not help my disposition any.
The disposition was pretty lousy because the stomach was hungry . . .
because I dislike needles and giving blood . . . and there was the possibility
of the scale. I was not the happiest
camper in the camp.
The first line of business was the
usual blood pressure and heart rate check.
Typically this is no big deal when I am just going to visit my doctor,
but this was the prelude before the blood test . . . the blood test where they
had to stick a needle in my body. With
such anxiousness the blood pressure and heart rate check tends to be higher
than normal . . . and it was. Imagine
that! Even though it was high it was
still well within the “normal” range. With
that information I was instructed to proceed to the next cubicle where my blood
would be drawn. Thankfully they did not
take my blood pressure or heart rate at that point as it would have been off
the charts.
As I mentioned earlier, I do not like
needles. Needles and I do not go well
together. I have been so tense in the
past that I have actually bent a needle as the phlebotomist inserted the needle
into my arm. Because of that I often
view phlebotomists as distant relatives of Count Dracula . . . not people I
want to get too close to. The phlebotomist
assured me that the “stick” would not hurt . . . told me it would be nothing
worse than a bee sting. I guess she
never saw me react to a bee sting . . . it isn’t pretty. All that screaming and cussing and crying as
I am stomping the life out of the insect that stung me. So, I prepared myself for the worse and
waited. Ouch! The phlebotomist pinched me on my left arm
and as I was responding to that pain she stuck me with the needle. I guess that was to distract me but all it
did was create two pains instead of one.
Deep within my body I wanted to scream like the world’s biggest sissy .
. . but, I did not. Real men don’t cry
when poked with a needle . . . it is a real pain being a real man.
Upon completion of taking a gallon of
my blood—okay, two small viles—the nurse stated, “Now, that wasn’t so bad, was
it?” She had to pry my hands off the
arms of the chair. Then she stated that
I was to go to the next cubicle, remove my shoes and socks, and wait. It is one thing to have a fear of needles—I think
that is legitimate, but it is another to have to take off one’s shoes and socks
in a public place in front of strangers . . . especially on the day I wore my
oldest pair of running shoes. You know
the ones that I am talking about . . . you smell them approaching before they
are even in the room. If I had known I
was going to be barefooted I would have gotten a pedicure.
Nowhere in the information that the
university provided about the health check-up was there anything mentioned
about shoes and socks being removed. It
was the last gauntlet of the health check-up—the body mass index. This measurement take a person’s height and
weight, places them into a top secret formula, and produces a person’s body
mass in relation to that person’s body fat.
This was not a measurement I wanted as I was quite happy living in the
delusion that my body was perfect as it was . . . what a joke! My delusion and reality were in two separate
neighborhoods. My delusion was living in
La La Land, while the reality was living in a land of . . . well,
weightiness. Upon receiving the results
my scream was probably heard all over campus and beyond. I thought it was in my mind, but the fear in
the technician’s eyes clearly let me know that it was not! The results?
Let’s just say that my body mass indicator indicated that there was no
reason for the stomach to be complaining about starving.
The end result was that I threw on my
shoes and socks, devoured the food table, and went back to work. I had survived. The stomach was fed and now complaining that
I had over-eaten. Luckily only a few
people actually heard me screaming, but they are on the other end of the campus
. . . I’ll never see them again. With the
delusion destroyed I begin the wait . . . it could be up to two weeks before I
get the results of what I went in for in the first place—the blood test. In the meantime, I wait . . . and wait . . .
I think that these health screenings
are set up like this on purpose . . . the waiting. The waiting period is just long enough for me
to fall back into and get comfortable with the delusion of being healthy as an
ox. For something that was free it sure
cost me a lot.
