Wrinkles Spread like stories

My hilarious sister has begun a blog. You should follow it. It's good for your health.


Doctor's offices cause anxiety meltdown in my irrational brain. For any regular occasion I would never cross their threshold. Sore throat? Suck it up. Nausea? It'll pass. Amputated fingertip? Flesh wound.

Unfortunately, after a lengthy bout of a bizarre, painful ailment which will remain unnamed for the purposes of this conversation, I resorted to the unthinkable. I visited the Dr's office yesterday. This was only because I was convinced I was about to die. I was afraid to sleep because I might wake up dead. I was afraid to eat because it might feed the minions. So I did it. I went to the clinic.

The nurse: "So what seems to be the problem?"
Me: *stares blankly*


Then: "I think I'm dying."
Nurse: "Alright. Let's check your vitals."

She proceeded to load me up with a plastic thermometer under my tongue, a blood pressure cuff, and a clip thing on my fingertip which apparently, through some unseen magic, took my pulse.

My resting heart rate read 102bpm.

She made a concerned face.  "Hm. Your pulse is a little high."
Of course it's a little high. I'm in a doctor's office. Doctors are morons. I am surrounded by idiots, who through some sick and twisted turn of fate, have been entrusted with my life.

Nurse: "Maybe I'll check it again after the appointment?"
I thought, You mean after the doctor tells me I'm going to die? Will my pulse drop when I find myself resigned to the inevitable?

During the appointment, the doctor informed me that I was not, in fact, going to die. I had an infection which was eating my flesh, but I was not going to die. Phew, I thought. At least I'll get to live while my skin creates its own mini-inferno.

Doc: "Does it hurt?"
No. It does feel like little worms are eating me from the inside out. Worms with sharp, pointy teeth.
Me: "Sure. What caused it?"
Doc made an intelligent thinking face. "I don't know."

Silence. Then: "... Aren't you a doctor?"
At least she still filled my prescription.Ten days of "aggressive antibiotics." We're gonna knock the buggers out.

Except I have Kaiser, which means I waited in line for an hour and a half with thirty other dying people. This was after going through their eight different pharmacies, where the pharmacists all told me, 'Well. Your prescription is ready to be picked up. But it's not at this pharmacy. I don't know where it is, actually. You might try the one on the ninth floor. Take the stairs cause the elevator is broken'.


Moral of the story: Kaiser is for people who are either in really good health, or who would die anyway. Also, just because it hurts doesn't mean it's cancer.