I y'am what I y'am

ELBOW ROOM

 

No longer do I criticize myself as I am, have always been, an early bird. Today is no exception. Six weeks ago I made my blood test appointment for my regular three month cholesterol check up.
As I drive the long distance thru  heavy traffic to my internist's office, my heart thumps at every red light I catch. Half of my internist's waiting area is for his patients and the three other doctor's in his group. I sit in the half held sacred for blood work patients. My 8:30 appointment should make me the first pin-cushion. I am there before the door to the building is unlocked and wait under the already too hot sun. 

 

My being first is meaningless. The orders left for what Lou, the head of the blood lab, is to do with my arm, are not found. I am told to sit down and wait. Can I argue? No, but I can seethe. Four ladies are called in, leave with a little cotton swab in the crook of their elbows  until they reach their car.

 

An elderly man, quite bald headed, walks in the central door. He dangles a set of several car keys, jiggles them around the room, asking if the keys belong to anyone. No one in the waiting area even bothers to look up. Perhaps the owner is in for a physical or having blood work done. The finder leaves, returns 3 times, gets no taker. There are no other buildings near the complex one I sit in so the good Samaritan drops them thru the window where the greeter sits who has still not found the orders Dr. Hurtz should have had at the front desk for me.

 

The magazines are out-dated, the two t.v.s have pictures but no sound. The large offering of coffee, cookies is against my no-eating rule until I get the ok to leave. There is nothing to do except one thing, the thing I enjoy. I study faces, people. A perfect example walks in, sits across the aisle from me, and I temporarily forget about not being called in to Lou. A tall, straight- backed senior has a rolled magazine under his arm. He takes a fast glance around the rest of us waiting, and relaxes in the non-relaxable chair. His clean, crisp white dress shirt is casually opened at the neck. He gives his slax a tiny pull, crosses his legs and opens the mag. I see the cover 'Golf for Experts'. His attention is absorbed and I can clearly see a large hole in the bottom of his shoe. It is totally out of place, so unlike what I would think this man would wear. Is it possible he doesn't know about it, knows but doesn't care, has plenty of other shoes or at worst has no other shoes?

 

I check the admission window and am told to sit down. I'll be called when my papers are ready. That is when the man who found the keys returns and asks again if any one came for them. He seems disappointed that his efforts did no good, mumbles as he leaves, 'Who the devil lost those keys?'

 

A loud, very loud, clicking sound approaches the rear section of the waiting area, where I am still waiting. My eyes and ears move quickly to the sound while the man with the hole in his shoe keeps his eyes on his reading material. The noise I am hearing is from the extremely high heels of an over-weight woman, who is wobbly on her new shoes. They are fashionable for young women but this woman is surely sixty, two heavy for stilt heels. As soon as she adjusts her skirt which is above her knees, her cell phone appears in her hand. She dials with one hand and looks in her purse for a mirror to add more red to her thick, pouty lips. She turns my stomach. I turn my head.

 

'Mrs. Cole,' my musical name is called. My papers are ready. Knowing the routine, I take them, put them behind all those still waiting, and wait.
Thirty more minutes pass. My empty stomach growls. I silently swear I am going to change doctors.

 

Lou's voice rings out like a golden bell. He, his empty vials, instructions, await me and my blood. But he has paper work to do, things for me to sign. My arm is already straight out on the one armed chair, waiting for Lou's rubber tube to be tied above my elbow. He gives it a quick tap, tap, tap on the inside bend of my elbow and a fast, totally painless needle enters my vein. The three empty vials are blood red in seconds, my ID carefully written on each.

 

My long wait is over. With a forced nice smile I hold the dab of cotton tight to my arm, raise it, walk to the door, drop the cotton that doesn't even have the tiniest bit of blood on it into my purse.

 

As I am about to pass the admission desk, I stop, make my appointment for three months from today, and go to my car.