There’s a damned party of fear and loathing surrounding the visit; one reveler tells me that those odd little symptoms I’ve ignored for the past two or three years have blossomed into a mid-level cancer or some tenacious form of scurvy, while another party hat reminds me that Billy didn’t have health care once I got booted after Comedy World’s bankruptcy, and he had to fend for himself, never really gaining any benefit from being on my domestic partner plan because we just didn’t have the time. Oh, I really want to buy that party guest an extra drink because had either of us had insurance and Billy had started complaining of chest pains, well, there wouldn’t have been the hemming and hawing hesitation that now finds me anchored in agony, and Billy would not be sleeping his dreamless sleep.
I’m told the doctor is the kindly old type and his receptionist has a voice from the Eisenhower years. Hopefully, I’ll get a nurse who can find a vein to draw blood. Most times, I’ve become so frustrated I’ve wanted to rip the needle from their rubber-gloved hands and just do the thing myself. I’m good at it, but mostly it’s because I just miss the theater of mainlining.
My last physical revealed absolutely nothing wrong with me. I had a full heart and lung scan, a complete blood panel, a finger up my ass, and ultimately, a big thumbs up from my doctor. I suppose this time around, it will be a referendum on stress and grief – just how much can a body take with no payback?