Doctors Will Be The Death Of Me

A couple of weeks ago I told you all about my blood-curdling, Transylvania Vampire experience at my doctor’s office – everyone survived although the top of my hand has looked like an experienced prize fighter since then. A bruised and purple hand does not, a pretty fashion statement, make.

So as is the usual, last week was my appointment; to follow-up on my blood-work, see what’s been happening for the last six months, and determine whether or not to call in extra folks for inspirational conversations or explanatory dieting techniques such as:

     

•                Starvation Through Wired-Shut Jaws – the positives and negatives.
•                            Training in the procedure of locking-down the refrigerator with chains and bolts the                    size of a wrestler’s arm.
•                    Directions on how to line the front of your refrigerator with Before and Before and                     Before pictures – from top to bottom – just so you understand – you will never see an                 After picture if you do not succeed.     
•                And lastly, the infamous Talk of Shame – which is guaranteed to leave you in tears and              swearing to never eat another pastry or plate of pasta again.

But first, I would have to actually be able to ATTEND my appointment. When I arrived, it was as they say, a full house. People and their moods were in all states of irritation. Finding a seat was the first hurdle, and then making sure I wasn’t anywhere near anyone who was hacking up a lung, running for the bathroom or looking flushed from fever. That last part wasn’t as easy as you would think, given that half of the room looked flushed from impatience and anger.

I must have arrived on “everybody in Quincy who is pregnant” appointment day. Women in all states of mommy-hood were there, shifting in their seats every two minutes, alternately sighing and fuming under their breath as their name was NOT the name called out when the door would swing open each time.

I myself was a little worried about the gal sitting directly in front of me, and actually even more concerned that I hadn’t taken that CPR/Emergency procedure class that was offered one time, a million years ago.  She truly looked like an any-day-now Mama and while I could hold her hand and let her squeeze it for relief – I wouldn’t be much help for anything else.

Finally, my name was called, much to the chagrin of an older woman with her arm in a sling, who was there before I was that day. I felt bad, and a little scared, because I had to walk right past her, but I would learn a few minutes later that she had arrived 2 HOURS early for her appointment. Seriously?! Who in the heck does that?

My appointment went well, I didn’t get into too much trouble and my numbers stayed stable from my last visit. All of that was well and good except for my weight number – that needs to unstable itself backwards at 120 miles MPH.

And – to my knowledge no emergency babies were delivered even though I was more than prepared to help, whether I knew what I was doing or not!