The other cause of my anxiety this week was a physical exam. Jon and I are getting our finances in order, and we recently purchased life insurance for both of us. Hence, physicals all around. I don't have the best diet in the world. It's fairly healthy, overall. I don't eat a lot of junk food. But I like fat and I eat fat and I don't worry about it that much. Maybe I should.
Because as the date for the physical drew near, I grew more and more careful about what I was eating and denied myself all kinds of things I would have otherwise indulged in, including a visit to the state fair. Therein lay madness, in the form of fried cheese curds and various chocolate things on sticks and mounds of french fries (which I eat the sophisticated, European way, with plenty of mayo). I didn't want to be tempted. So I arrived at the medical office, having fasted that morning and been "good" for a few days beforehand.
I thought it would be a clinic, but it was really just a group of rather cruddy offices in a nondescript building off the highway: dull carpeting, beige walls, a few mismatched chairs in the waiting room, and people eating lunch at their desks. The nurse (dressed in regular clothes, no lab coat or uniform of any kind) brought me back to one office, handed me a urine cup and sent me down the hall to the public restroom. Other building tenants were coming and going -- insurance agents and secretaries and whatnot, miscellaneous businesses having space there. As I left the bathroom, I tried to hide the cup behind the palm of my hand, to disguise the fact that I was walking around the halls with a cup full of urine, without even a cap on it to keep it from sloshing around.
Back in the office, I sat down at the desk and gave my medical history, then held out my arm for the blood draw: three tubes. I'm often a bit squeamish about having blood drawn, although I've improved over the years (having survived many IVs and other unpleasantries during my difficult Henry pregnancy), but maybe because I'd been fasting I started to feel ill during the blood draw. The nurse was chattering away about something. "I'm starting to feel icky," I said, noticing that the worn, brown carpeting was rushing toward my face in a rather intimidating manner.
"It's okay, we're all done. Are you going to pass out?"
"Hm...maybe. Just...I'll just sit here."
"Do you have low blood sugar?"
"Mm-hmm..."
"I'll go get something for you...maybe we have some juice or a candy bar or something around here..."
I sat there with my head between my knees while she rushed out, then back in with something in the palm of her hand.
"We don't really have anything here. No candy or juice or anything. But I did find some Lifesavers. Here, take one. No, take two. I've got low blood sugar, too, see? And I'm going to take one." She put the Lifesaver in her mouth.
What are Lifesavers -- about 8 calories? I was skeptical, but I took one of them and put it in my mouth. I started to feel a bit better (I'd been doing some slow, deep breathing) and after convincing the nurse that I was ok I got back into my car and drove around, looking for a McDonald's. No luck. Which is, obviously, peculiar. There is always a McDonald's around. Right? But I ended up at a Panera, where I ate a chicken sandwich that tasted a bit chemical.
And crossed one more anxiety off my list. Why do I worry?
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