First off is the scale. I hate the scale. Every year a few more pounds creep onto that sonofabitch. I am surprised that the number isn't worse, so I'll take what little good news I can get. Next, my height gets measured. I am assuming that my height is done every year to see if my bones are deteriorating.
"You'll have to take off your glasses," the nurse says, pointing to the specs I have perched on the top of my head.
"Uhhhhh, I was hoping to add an inch or two to my height this year." Guess not.
The nurse does most of the hard work: heart rate (slow as usual since I have a very cold heart), blood pressure (low - I'm not in school right now), and then an EKG (to prove I have a heart). Then comes the sitting. Waiting. In the exam room. Half-naked. Alone.
Daisy has been on the windowsill of the exam room ever since I have been coming to this doctor so long ago. Years. Daisy is always moving, always dancing, and always smiling. Daisy is a small, automated plastic toy that resembles a plant. She is battery operated and seems to be endlessly moving.
I cannot explain why this toy fascinates me except for the fact that I am probably immature and find it funny. No, truly. Its petals sometimes get themselves off tempo, forcing the smiling daisy head to bob and weave while the petal arms struggle to get back in perfect time.
How do I know this? I know this because I have watched this damn toy tick-tock back and forth for every appointment for the last decade or so. I am obsessed with this thing. I don't want one of my own, though. That would ruin its yearly mystique.
Once the doctor comes into the exam room, I forget all about Daisy. There are more pressing concerns. It is discovered in the course of the exam that I have some other issues going on that need to be addressed. When the doctor leaves to file lab work papers, it's just me and Daisy again, its ever-dancing presence soothing the sting of getting old and having to face more tests for more physical failures.
Except for the scale and the new tests being ordered, it's another successful day at the doctor. Hopefully, all will be well, and I'll see Daisy in a year (and not a day sooner). As long as everything goes well, I should be fine on blood work for another year, too.
If not, Daisy and the Roadrunner will be looking out for me. Immature, I know, but the annual physical might as well have some jovial lightness to it. At my age, it may be the only great thing left about the doctor visits.
