graphix: spwilcen
(The Old Grump Visits the Doctors’ Office)
“So, Doc, how’s my test results?”
“I’m not a doctor.”
“No? What are you?”
“Nurse Practitioner.”
“Hmm. See the word ‘practice’ is still in there.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Not a doctor? That mean I get a reduced rate for this office visit?
“Probably standard office charge. Check with the front desk on your way out.”
“Hmm. So, not-a-doctor: tell me how’s my PDQ?”
“PDQ?”
“Fat to lean?”
“That’s BMI.”
“That’s what I said.”
“A bit high. Twenty-five.”
“What should it be?”
“Under twenty-five.”
“Based on my height and weight, right?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I’m seventy-five.”
“Age makes no difference for someone over the age of twenty.”
“I’m thinking you better go back to school on that one.”
“How do you figure?”
“Old people, retired people, tend to lead different lifestyles. Not going to be, sometimes can’t be as active as younger people. Bodies naturally adapt. Been doing it, I reckon since before any PDQ measurements.”
“BMI.”
“What I said.”
“Well not as active, slowing down if you will, a body needs fewer calories so if you’re not careful, you put on weight. Which affects your BMI.”
“I don’t agree, but I’m gonna give you that one and take this further.”
“I’m interested.”
“I’m very active. I lift and tote a lot of heavy weights.”
“So?”
“So PDQ…”
“BMI.”
“What I said. Is based solely on height and weight, right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Twits out front weighed me with my shoes on. Didn’t ask if I had kryptonite in my pockets. Was wearing a damned parka!”
“They take all that into account.”
“Never even looked at the ‘how-tall’ hickey.”
“They’re good at this. They know.”
“Hell, they can’t even remember who I am. How they gonna know I don’t have wet socks? Pocket full of nails?”
“They see a lot of patients. They can’t remember everyone’s name.”
“Bet I’m the grumpiest man they deal with. They should remember me. Keep asking me when I was born.”
“Well, you see…”
“Well nothing. They got my damned chart right there.”
“That’s for HIPAA.”
“They don’t know HIPAA by heart now?”
“They’re checking your identity. Date of birth is one of the questions they ask.”
“Oh, that’s a good check. Like no one could have that answer memorized.”
“Don’t want someone to come looking to get your meds and…”
“Bunk. You don’t want them to get a free physical. Poked and probed. Man’d have to be nuts to try to sneak in for a physical just accounta.”
“Well, it’s pretty much law.”
“Stupid, but I gotta let it go. Back to this PDQ.”
“BMI.”
“What I said. Based solely on height and weight?”
“After the age of twenty, correct.”
“Sex and body type got nothing to do with it?”
“Correct.”
“I lift and carry. I’ve got more muscle than most men have common sense.”
“So?”
“So I’m dense. Body dense. Got that? More muscle on the same frame or height as Joe Office guy who isn’t a gym-rat. And I’m sure as hell denser than a very tall twenty-two year-old ballerina.”
“So?”
“Don’t laugh at me. So this ballerina is the same height as me. I have more muscle bulk than she does.”
“Probably. Maybe.”
“Bullshit, maybe. She lift engine blocks? I don’t pirouette de tu-tu minage or nothing, but I’m betting my back, leg, and arms have proportionately more mass than hers, Olympic ballerina or no.”
“Still don’t see your point.”
“So at five-eleven she gets a healthy twenty-three PDQ and me, at five-eleven I…”
“BMI.”
“What I said. And I get a twenty-five?”
“That’s what the chart says.”
“Chart is two-dimensional. You medicos need to go back to school with that one. Now. Let’s talk about BP ideal’ of one-twenty over seventy.”
“That’s an interesting argument. We can talk about blood pressure maybe later. Now. Are you having any problems hearing?”
“What?”
“I said are you…”
“I heard you. I’m stepping on your chain. You see these little pink doo-dads in my ears? They are called ‘hearing aids.’ Means I have trouble hearing. Not a fashion statement. Should be on my chart. If it’s not, I can write it down for you.”
“What?”
“How’s your hearing?”
“My hearing’s f….”
“Trouble is not so much my hearing as people nowadays don’t know how to talk. They mumble. Don’t move their lips. F’s and S’s sound the same except to bats. Everyone wants to talk like they’re from California. Like, you know, my gawd, they like talk so fast and like sing-song like they’re gonna miss getting it all out in that screechy, whiny voice, like, you know?”
“Yes. Well, um, any trouble with bowel movement?”
“What? Bowl what? Bowling? Everyone bowls now and again. Opportunity to drink a beer or two, maybe.”
“No, I said…”
“Used to.”
“Used to what?”
“Bowl. On two teams.”
“Good exercise. Why’d you quit?”
“Didn’t.”
“Said you used to.”
“Used to what?”
“Bowl.”
“Oh. Everybody else on my teams died.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Was it your fault?”
“No, I mean…”
“I know what you meant. You think I’m some kind of doddering old fool?”
“No, uh…”
“Bowel movement…”
“Stepping on my chain again?”
“You’re learning. I’m as regular in my morning read-a-book sit-down as I was when I was twenty. Proud work, too.”
“Nothing loose, discolored?”
“Not in the habit of inspecting. Once I’m done, I’m pretty much not concerned with it anymore if you understand.”
“Yes. But discoloration. Blood. “
“I like beets.”
“Turns your stool red?”
“You bet. Different red, though. Scares the shit outta me at first if I’m not paying attention. Not intended to be funny or nothing. Beets are like asparagus. Shake up the systems.”
“Okay. Um, how’s your libido?”
“My little what?”
“I mean… Oh, you’re at it again, right?”
“Yup. You’re too damned easy.”
“Well. Any questions today?”
“Gonna rain tonight?”
“I mean…”
“I know. Geeze, if you weren’t such a tight ass, you’d be fun to mess with. But since you asked. Having some rotator cuff problems…”
“We can schedule an MRI.”
“Sure, you can, but I ain’t goin. You medicos start the referrals rolling-in, I’ll be spending all my time sitting in specialists’ offices waiting until 11 am for a 9 am appointment. Pass.”
“Well then…”
“Well then, we’re done here?”
“Why yes, we are.”
“Fine. Pay at the front desk as you leave.”
“You’re messing with me again, aren’t you?
“Yes, indeed, I am. See you in six months.”
© spwilcen 2022
Ramblings 