I’ve been a knucklehead all of my life. And not just an ordinary one, but with Olympic knuckleheading skills. Gold medal stuff, really. Case in point. When I was in college, I frequently skipped class. Which, given the price tag at Knox College, was absolutely ridiculous. But I just didn’t do this for the mandated classes I had to take but didn’t have any interest in, like foreign language, science, and math. Oh no, I even went full-on assclown in my major on occasion, as I’ve shared before. I was taking a literature class with a professor I liked and respected, so I really made an effort to show up. But one day, hungover or filled with the disproportionate ennui only a 20-year-old knucklehead can dream up, I just decided to skip. The prof. had a policy that only excused absences were accepted, and those needed documentation, so that should have been a skip-deterrent. But just wasn’t. So, I went to the doctor down the street, thinking I would just get my get-out-of-jail-free card stamped. I figured I’d just say I had the sniffles or whatever and get out of there and enjoy the sunny afternoon. But the intake nurse was this grizzled old lady who sounded like she smoked ten packs a day, and she was totally unimpressed with my initial answers. “So, you have a runny nose and a sore throat. A cold, basically.” I realized I had to up my game. “Uh, I’ve experienced some dizziness too. A lot of dizziness.” She barely blinked. “Uh huh. Anything else?” “Yeah. Of course. I wouldn’t just be here for a common cold, right. That would be juvenile.” I thought about it and added. “Nausea. Some nausea. You know, not a lot, but some. With the dizziness.” She scowled. “Is that it?” “Yes,” I replied. “I mean, no. Not just it. Plenty of dizziness, a little nausea, and, uh. . . headaches. Pretty pronounced ones.” “Migraines?” She looked mildly interested. “No. Well, maybe.” She went back to unimpressed. And skeptical. And I felt a wave of panic. What if they called me out as a fraud? Would they report me? I needed something to really justify my visit. The nurse asked, “Anything else?” I blurted out, “Did I mention the blood in my stool?” She perked up. “Blood you say? In your stool?” I didn’t like the gleam in her eye, and suddenly second guessed myself, but it was too late. It was out there. “Uh, yeah. I mean, I think so. I’m not a doctor or anything.” She stood up, now smiling, which made me really uncomfortable. “No, but the doctor will see you shortly.” After waiting for a bit, he marched in, all business, ticking off the items I listed until his eyebrows raised when he read off the blood bit. “Blood in the stool, is it?” My throat dried up. Quietly, I said. “Uh. . . yeah. A little. Maybe. Is that serious?” “We’ll just have to see, son. It could be nothing. But It could be symptomatic of something far more concerning. Let’s rule some things out, shall we?” And then he proceed to run a battery of tests, bloodwork, X-rays, urine samples, stool samples, lengthy discussion about my medical history, diet, general well-being. So, rather than drag my sorry ass out of bed and walk five minutes across campus to attend an hour-long class in my major that I actually enjoyed, I opted instead to sit in a waiting room for two hours and then endure prodding, poking, interrogation, and exhaustive testing for another three hours because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut, and so wasted the entire day instead. Gold. Medal.
Posted on: Mon, 10 Nov 2014 17:05:32 +0000
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