In elementary school, our classes always put on some sort of holiday presentation that involved singing. We'd line up in our blue-on-blue outfits, arranged by height in front of the church, and we'd belt out a blend of religious and secular-but-not-godless tunes. During one rehearsal, young Christopher Dunn felt his eyes roll back, and then his body followed. In trying to stand up straight, he'd locked his knees so tightly that he fainted next to the altar.
I thought about poor Chris yesterday while at the doctor's office. My doctor is the best. He's kind and down-to-earth, and he explains tricky medical things in easy-to-understand ways. He remembers non-medical details about my life and is always encouraging me to date more. Also, he is a sci-fi nerd.
I was in his office for a few reasons. Most importantly, I'd found another breast lump, and it was painful. I always feel awkward about having him check this sort of thing. I worry that he might think I'm trying to get some cheap thrills out of the visit, which is doubly awkward because I'm pretty sure he's gay. Anyway, he felt what I was talking about, made a concentrated frown, and then covered my torso with the hospital gown.
"Well, your breasts look good," he announced. "Oh, wait, that doesn't sound right."
"You're right, they're spectacular," I joked. Laughs all around. (See, he gets my sense of humor.)
So the lump didn't worry him. Good. Then it was vaccination time. There are two things I'm terrified of: snakes and needles. If it's possible to avoid either, I'll do it. But I'd rather have an vaccine than have Hepatitis A or B — the treatment of which would undoubtedly involve even more needles — so you do what you gotta do.
That brings us back to Chris Dunn, whose particular brand of fainting I stole as the second vaccine spread through my arm. Suddenly I couldn't see, my ears began ringing, my face drained of color, my throat and tongue tightened, and I began slumping down on the table. Did you know there's a fancy term for this? It's called a vasovagal episode, and my doctor explained it to me as I considered dying of embarrassment. Suffice it to say that I do not look forward to next month's follow-up vaccine appointment.
I thought about poor Chris yesterday while at the doctor's office. My doctor is the best. He's kind and down-to-earth, and he explains tricky medical things in easy-to-understand ways. He remembers non-medical details about my life and is always encouraging me to date more. Also, he is a sci-fi nerd.
I was in his office for a few reasons. Most importantly, I'd found another breast lump, and it was painful. I always feel awkward about having him check this sort of thing. I worry that he might think I'm trying to get some cheap thrills out of the visit, which is doubly awkward because I'm pretty sure he's gay. Anyway, he felt what I was talking about, made a concentrated frown, and then covered my torso with the hospital gown.
"Well, your breasts look good," he announced. "Oh, wait, that doesn't sound right."
"You're right, they're spectacular," I joked. Laughs all around. (See, he gets my sense of humor.)
So the lump didn't worry him. Good. Then it was vaccination time. There are two things I'm terrified of: snakes and needles. If it's possible to avoid either, I'll do it. But I'd rather have an vaccine than have Hepatitis A or B — the treatment of which would undoubtedly involve even more needles — so you do what you gotta do.
That brings us back to Chris Dunn, whose particular brand of fainting I stole as the second vaccine spread through my arm. Suddenly I couldn't see, my ears began ringing, my face drained of color, my throat and tongue tightened, and I began slumping down on the table. Did you know there's a fancy term for this? It's called a vasovagal episode, and my doctor explained it to me as I considered dying of embarrassment. Suffice it to say that I do not look forward to next month's follow-up vaccine appointment.
Labels: neuroses
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