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<td width="343" valign="bottom"><p class="date"><!-- InstanceBeginEditable name="date" --><a href="default.html">11/21/03 • Vol.
127, No. 38</a><!-- InstanceEndEditable --></p></td>
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<h1>Death and sarcasm on a Sunday afternoon</h1>
<p>By Patrick Reetz</p>
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<p>I’m not sick. Really, I’m not. Just because I was curled
in the fetal position on my couch last Sunday writhing in pain and calling
family members to bid them farewell as I was sure I was on my deathbed
(deathcouch?) does not necessarily mean I’m sick. </p>
<p> I’m not in denial either. Really, I’m not.</p>
<p> So it came as a shock to realize I had admitted defeat and driven myself
to the urgent care center that afternoon, much to the disappointment
of my vast and mighty ego. Oh, doctor!</p>
<p> I found myself filling out the requisite forms that asked me who I
was a guardian for. Now, you see, I have some sort of mental condition
that
makes me fill out forms with a sense of humor, cynicism and sarcasm only
I can enjoy. </p>
<p> Even though I worried my heart may stop beating at any moment while
filling out those forms, I continued on with my constant need to amuse
myself
by jotting down some creative replies. My responses were: “Liquid
Roadkill—my guitar;” “A large collection of blues,
rock and early ‘90s alternative CDs—because Buddha knows
that what’s on the radio right now couldn’t pass for real
alternative;” and “My recently stolen car stereo—if
found, please return (does this make me a bad guardian?)” </p>
<p> I returned the forms to the cute nurse at the desk and produced my
insurance “card.” Now,
I remember the good days when I was under my parents’ real insurance
and I had an actual plastic card. </p>
<p> But these are the poor college days with poor student insurance, and
the look I got from the cute nurse at the desk when I handed my paper
card that read “MEGA student insurance” on it basically said
to me “Yo, Mega Man. You’re not fooling anyone with this
fake card.” Luckily for me, she was nice in addition to being cute,
and decided to let her billing department handle it for me. </p>
<p> She took me into a room to take my vitals and history of my current
complaint. I’m sure I impressed her with my vast medical terminology and contemplated
writing down my phone number on a tongue depressor. However, as she was taking
my blood pressure, she mumbled to herself “damn.” Let me tell you—and
as someone in a health-care profession graduate program, I do know these things—this
is never a good sign. </p>
<p> “
What is it?” I asked. “Oh, 160 over 120.” Now, 140/90 is already
too high. But 160/120 means your heart is unhappy with its current position in
the universe and is actually trying to jump into your skull. The cute nurse decided
that she didn’t know how to take blood pressure and decided to let the
doctor take it. </p>
<p> I waited a surprisingly small amount of time, and in walked the doctor.
Now, mind you, at that point I was still sure I was dying. Yes, I did
once swear that
I wouldn’t be one of those students who takes a pathology class and decides
he has eight different types of cancer, nine heart diseases and a small plethora
of other ailments, but it turns out I’m more of a hypochondriac than I
thought. Consequently, my first words when he came in through the door were: “Doc,
my heart is going to stop beating any second now!”</p>
<p> Lucky for me, he must have seen a few neurotic students stressing out
on a Sunday before their neuroanatomy exam in his many years of practice.
He quickly determined
that it was simply indigestion and stress and that my blood pressure was only
135/85. As I sat there with my eyes bulging out of my head and my hand taking
my pulse to make sure I didn’t have an irregular heart beat, he asked, “Would
it make you feel better if I did an EKG?” </p>
<p> I thought about it for a few seconds. In my head, it went something
like this: “That’s
lame dude. You know it’s just your stomach. But if he did an EKG, you could
get that cute nurse back in here putting electrodes all over your body and you’d
have a cool paper with squiggly lines all over it to go home and play ER with.
Yeah! Do it!” I agreed. </p>
<p> Ten minutes later, the doctor came back in with the results and said, “I’m
sorry to tell you this, but you’ve only got 80 or 90 years to live. Now
get out of my clinic.” </p>
<p> Thank Buddha for modern medicine.</p>
<p> —
This columnist can be reached at collegian@csufresno.edu</p>
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