Trouble in The Office

Getting Physical

All my sins, past and present, I thought, would show up in this little stool cup.

I was on the throne this morning for about an hour and was unsuccessful in producing my specimen. My appointment with the Diagnostic and Therapeutic Center (DTC from now on) was at nine-thirty am, and I was frustrated that I couldn't, you know, move. My bowels usually came through for me at seven thirty sharp, even before I took the ritualistic cup of joe.

Anyway, I missed last year's Annual Check-up. I'd been given clean bills of health since I started working, so when I couldn't find the time in 2006, I felt cocky enough to just let it go that time. I didn't think things would have changed since the last physical. But I was dead wrong. Things did change.

Fastforward, 2007. In two separate episodes, I woke up in the middle of night gasping for breath. They were nightmares. Dark-clothed men with sledgehammers beat my chest like I was piece of beef that needed tenderizing. They were my first honest to goodness chest pains. The thought of those sledgehammers coming in again at me forced me out of cocky zone, and the following morning, I was calling up the company nurse to set me an appointment at the DTC.

--

I gave up trying at nine-fifteen. I would just have to try again on Monday to put something in that plastic cup; the nurses surely would understand (and they did, thankfully). Dad and my sis dropped me off DTC, and I went straight to the reception desk and filled out my forms. They asked me to take a seat. Where? The reception area was packed with people, and it dawned on me that it was a weekend and that I should have expected that kind of influx. After finding a chair to sit on (and read the rest of that damn book Martian Chronicles that I never found the time to finish), I couldn't help but look and take mental photographs of the people around me.

Guy Across Me was in his twenties, maybe fresh out of school, and the physical was probably for the new job he got in the last week. Old Lady Reading Village Voice had her left wrist bandaged; she was having a hard time keeping the paper from shaking. On the little tables where you got to answer your "forms," Tall Girl Turned Hot Pregnant Mama fiddled with the urine canister (still empty) in one hand while she downed cup after paper cup of cold water. That's strange, I thought. Didn't women lose all bladder control when they get knocked up?

All throughout the waiting time I heard a score of names shouted out by nurses in blue scrubs.

"Ms Connie Manahan?" It's Old Lady Reading Village Voice, and she got up and followed the nurse.

"Mr Bajo? Mr Bajo" The male nurse pronounced the name with a hard "j", like "jelly." Then he changed the pronounciation to an "h," and there some middle-aged man stood up.

The nurse appeared flustered. "You're Mr Baho, sir?"

Man answered in the affirmative, like there was nothing wrong. A handful of people around was sniggering. I kept my nose in Bradbury's book, then I heard my name.

I got up too and followed the nurse. When I entered the room, a tray of vials filled with bright red blood stood at attention. They were chanting my name, of course, more cheerful and encouraging than how the nurse said it. Nurse was very professional. She asked me sit down on the special chair with bigger than usual armrests, and I did. Nurse took a strap of rubber and wound it tightly around my right arm. She felt for my angry nerves in the crook of my arm, felt one fat worm of a blood vessel wiggle, then she took out the artillery.

Where had I seen this scene? Why did it feel so familiar?

Of course... It looked like Dead Man Walking. That part with the Lethal Injection. Gah.

Needles made me faint. I looked away and started reading to myself the Parts of a Human Kidney poster which was mounted on the wall. Nurse pressed hard on the vein. Hmm, interesting... I didn't know kidneys had ... OUCH MOTHER PLASTIC EARTH ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME?!?

Of course I didn't say that OUT loud, but I did swear a lot in my head. I didn't want to appear like a wuss. I bit on my lip. Shit, it's bleeding. Suck on it, damnit.

Nurse released me out of the Blood Draining Room (that's not a real name, but I can move the Senate to make it so). Next up were X-ray, Physical Exam, and Eye Vision. Nothing much went on, except that I found the male X-ray attendant so polite as to avert his eyes from my girls which were seen through the sheer hospital gown.

When Nurse said it was time for me to do the stress test, I imagined the cardiologist giving me a stack of campaigns presentations, a specfic short story for the PSF antho, and the task of finding all my eggs a decent sperm home, to be completed in under two hours. I would suffer inexorably. They should get the ER ready. I would be writhing like a Hogwarts student spurted on by basilisk venom... or whatever.

I got to the second floor when the contraptions were. Finally the cardiologist hollered my name after I waited for an hour (which meant I got to that part in Martian Chronicles where the Earth Men finally set up colonies in Mars and the past and present were mixing up). Dr Cardio had amazing skin for a guy who had only white hair. In his room, he brought out my rap sheet and started asking the same questions the Nurse and The PE doctor drilled down earlier that morning.

"Do you smoke?"

"No," I said.

"Drink?"

"No. Wait. Occassionally."

"Any histories of high blood in the family?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"My dad, and all my dead uncles."

Doc Cardio looked up from the rap sheet, then nodded. What? What was that nod supposed to mean?

"Any histories of cancer, diabetes..."

"Yes. Cancer in my father's side, diabetes on my mother's." I was so used to this already. It was the third time today, I had it down pat.

"Any episodes of chest pains?"

The two incidents flared up in my head. "No." He'd think I was crazy. And I didn't want to explain the beef metaphor.

Doc took out the blood pressure measurer (what did people call those things?).

"110 over 80. It's nice and low." He patted my arm. He said those words and patted my arm like I'm ready to be turned over to the Brainwash Squad of the military, Bourne Ultimatum style. What project was that? Briar... Briar something...

Nurse Two plugged me to the stress test machine which was basically a treadmill, a monitoring PC, and fat gray wires. The wires were pinched to little circle stickers on my body (chest, abdomen) that had snaps for the pincers to hold on to. Then they started the treadmill. I was on it of course. I survived the flat and first incline for six minutes. When we got to the final incline my legs cramped and I flashed the surrender flag. The air was getting very thin already, like being on the Alps (of course, I couldn't say that as I fact because I'd never been there). Doc said I was normal.

Thank heavens.

I canter out of DTC and make a mental note to come back here and drop off fresh poop on Monday.

Labels: annual, requirements

posted by Elyss @ 10:50 PM