Y'all were talking about bloodwork being done on ya... Here's an
old magazine article I wrote about it oncet.
A Cup Of Sweetness…
c Walt C. Snedeker
As The Fabled PC, my long-suffering Scottish spouse likes to point out, I have the mind of a child. It’s true; I keep it in a jar under the bed.
My sense of humor, she says, sometimes ought to have its license revoked. This last pronouncement came as a result of some small misbehavior on my part that took place in the local hospital.
Seems that I needed to have knee surgery. Ouch. And the deal was that since this was a scheduled affair, I was to give my own blood for the future operation. Side Note: I have since discovered by talking with Scooter (My-son-the-doctor) that they don’t need this blood for these operations. They use it for the beautiful rose bushes outside on the hospital grounds. But this information is to remain strictly between us folks. Back to the story.
So I go on down to the hospital, and go through all the depositions, mortgages, interviews, and entrail divinings that hospital minions delight in inflicting upon us lowly civilians to prepare for this blood donation. Having been fingerprinted and DNA’d, retinal-scanned, and my genealogy confirmed for seven generations, they passed me to the Second Stage. That’s the one where they have ten chairs that were left over from a movie about Auschwitz and Dr. Mengele, all empty, with tubes and syringes and other scary things hanging from them. Of course, even though there is nobody else giving blood, there has to be a fifteen minute wait (to build up your blood pressure, I can only assume). Finally, in comes Dr. Quasimodo with a gasoline can and a razor to get some blood from my quivering alabaster bod.
A palsied gnome with thick, clumsy fingers began to probe various parts of my arm with a section of epoxied garden hose, eventually causing a serious flow to ensue. Kewl. Some minutes later, having donated my own gore, they gave me one of those apple juice containers with the foil lid.
You know the kind: they hand them out in airplanes. No matter how carefully you attempt to peel back the foil, the pressurized juice is guaranteed to erupt, so that ALL the passengers can have the experience of dumping apple juice all over themselves.
I'm a fairly large and healthy guy, so I really don't need a sugar hit after giving a pint of blood... that’s why I decided to put the unopened container in my pocket, so I could open it later when I had my wetsuit on.
I got up to leave, when a particularly acerbic lady in a nurse’s outfit suddenly brayed at me: "Hey! You... if that's yer name! You ain't going nowhere."
It wasn’t easy, Gentle Reader to withhold the entire series of comments that this straight line handed me, but I was noble. I looked over at her. Her nametag identified her as Miss Demeanor. I was obviously something that annoyed her (I was a patient, albeit only temporary, and ambulatory at that – a double annoyance to her.)
She sighed and snorted at the same instant – an accomplishment which I found impressive – and imperiously beckoned me to the foot of her throne.
"Here, take this and go give me a sample."
“This” was one of those little plastic cups (you know the ones) and she pointed a peremptory finger at the potty door. Ever obedient as always. (Ah, an interruption – The Fabled PC is reading this as I relate it, and her comment on that “obedient” quote has just disproved the adage that two positives cannot make a negative: Regarding it, she says,
“Yeah, right!”
Getting back to the story, I walked into the aforementioned potty… and the Devil bit me right on the butt.
I took out the container of apple juice, ripped off the top, and poured the contents into the specimen cup. The empty container went into the convenient wastebasket thoughtfully provided by the hospital housekeeping folks.
When I came out of the potty proudly waving my brimming specimen cup, Miss Demeanor got her PMS in high gear.
"You are
supposed to leave it in there on the shelf, not bring it out here!" This, with a rolling of the eyes and a sigh that Hillary Rodham would die for.
Sooo... I sez very politely: "Dang, Miss Demeanor, ma'am, I'm powerful sorry I didn't read your mind, and therefore have apparently made it so this here sample is contaminated. Tell you what: I’ll just recycle it for you!”
With a nice flourish, I upended the specimen cup and drank it down.
Miss Demeanor went ballistic. Absolutely nuts.
She went echoing down the hallway, calling for Security, doctors, and probably the cotton-picking FBI.
A lot of folks immediately gathered round, so I quickly went into the potty, retrieved the empty apple juice container and showed it to them with my charming boyish smile. A couple of the doctors began laughing so hard they spotted.
When Miss Demeanor came back, EVERYBODY was laughing (and several were pointing at HER, with tears in their eyes).
She was the only one who didn't see the humor of the situation.
.
