Bloody Christmas

So Dr. McScreamy, when not wielding sarcasm and fury at my testicles, gave me what I refer to as his “Bloody Christmas List,” he suggested my primary physician perform the blood tests. He said it would be cheaper, but I have a sneaking suspicion it would be a waste of his time. Of course I do not have a primary physician because I am male and this means: NO DOCTORS! It's really supposed to be a guy code thing, but I'll admit that, even after all of this, it's more a fear thing for me. But money saved is money saved, so I find a local doctor who, ironically is about to go on maternity leave. I make this appointment despite my total and completely rational fear of needles and the havoc they wreak. And of course the list of tests McScreamy wants ran is a mile long so I imagine that my arm's going to be hacked to pieces.

“You know, if you guys are out of needles, I really won't be upset,” I tell the nurse as coolly as possible. “I can always come back another time.”

“I don't think that'll be a problem,” she replies and there is no mistaking the bloodlust in her eyes.

The doctor comes in and she's really cool. Fonzie cool. She explains the tests in greater detail and without all the screaming. There'll be regular blood screens, a cystic fibrosis screening, and some in depth looks at my genetic code. A cornucopia of tests, if you will.

“You know, you can have irregularities in your genes and still look normal,” Fonz shares. Finally, a medical opinion that I am possibly almost normal looking-ish!

This test is to find if there's something deep down that might be messing with seed quality, if ya know what I mean. Makes me feel like an X-Man whose power is producing freakishly unviable sperm. Like Steve.

After giving up on them being out of needles, I man up and ask Dr. Fonz exactly how many times I'm going to end up getting stabbed with a needle. She assures me that there'll only be the one stabbing.

“Um…is there going to be a prostate exam thingie as well?” I ask cause I will NEVER be blindsided again. She looks at me quizzically. “No…not unless you want me to?”

“No thanks, Doc. I'm good.”

Enter the nurse again, carrying two trays filled with vials of different sizes like she just came from Willy Wonka's medical supply torture cabinet.

I eye her suspiciously as she says, “OK, if you can roll up your sleeve for me? We're going to be taking nine blood samples.”

NINE?! But Fonzarelli said….

Oh, yeah. There's only one needle. They just change out vials.

Well played, Fonz. Well played.

Nurse Bloodthirsty asks if I've eaten anything. Nope. Nothing. Sweet! I'm gonna be all woozy after this bloodletting!

But no. No woozy. No hallucinations. No cookie. No nothing.

I get a message from the nurse a few days later: Slightly high cholesterol (“cut down on red meat,” the nurse says like I'm some kind of heartless machine), no cystic fibrosis, and just negative on any bad DNA stuff. And no answers!

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