What the doctor ordered

Unlike me, my doctor is popular, so it’s impossible to get a physical unless I schedule four months in advance.
This makes it difficult for me, since I generally avoid scheduling until the last minute.
My skill at this is so great — I am not ashamed to admit it—that I usually get my physicals because someone else cancels theirs.
So when my doctor’s office called me the day before to tell me a slot had opened, I took it in stride. Even when the receptionist mentioned the other patient had died.
I showed up for my appointment the way the doctor tells you to do it, half an hour early, and as usual was let in half an hour late.
This is the way of the doctor’s office. I have ceased to question it.
I have also ceased to question why nurses take the histories, do the EKGs, draw blood, and help patients through the tens of other things that happen during a physical, but the doctor gets all the credit for scribbling something on a clipboard.
I saw what my doctor was scribbling once. It was a grocery list.
Unless she intended to go shopping among my internal organs, I get the feeling her mind was not on me at that moment.
Now, I know I’m not exactly a medical curiosity, but I’d like a little more attention. If not for my health, then for my self-esteem.
Today was no different than the other days. A nurse pointed to a sign on the wall and asked me to read it. “DO NOT ENTER,” I intoned.
“Your vision is perfect!” she chirped, and waved me in.
She continued to prattle as she wrapped a blood pressure monitor around my arm. I learned that she had graduated nursing school six months ago.

I also learned she didn’t really like the doctor she worked for. I was going to say “Me neither,” but she wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise.
“Your blood pressure’s a little low,” she said, squinting at the monitor. I thought of the doctor. “No, wait, it’s good now,” she added.
The final step was the one involving needles. I squeezed a foam ball with a smiley face on it while the nurse swabbed the inside of my elbow with alcohol, and not of the fun variety.
The nurse pressed down a few times on my skin. “I’m having trouble finding your vein,” she murmured.
“It’s where it’s always been,” I offered helpfully. “Inside my arm.”
She shoved in the needle a good deal harder than was necessary.
True to form, the doctor only showed up after the nurse had left. The doc skimmed my chart with the practiced eye of a professional, glanced at me, then jotted something down.
“Is something wrong?” I ventured. She nodded. I felt a cold chill. Visions of medical emergencies danced through my head.
“I forgot to pick up split peas,” she muttered.
Well, I was alive. That was good enough. As I swung into the hall, she told me to schedule another checkup for next year.
“You can grab a sucker on the way out,” she called.
But there were too many in the waiting room, so I just went home.

Copyright 2025 Alexandra Paskhaver, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.