I hate the Doctor. But at least mine is from Trinidad.

I made my mom come with me to the doctor. I'm a sissy. Yeah, get over it. I'm twenty one years old, and I made my mom come with me to the doctor this morning. And I went in sweats.
I'm over it, you should be too.
On top of that, I was fasting.
I don't fast. I'm not supposed to fast. Bad things happen. But, since they were taking my blood, I knew I had to.
I think I almost passed out like fifty times.
So anyway, I hate the doctor. But mine is from Trinidad and she has four names. Yeah, she's black, she's got swag, and she's from the islands. Does it get much cooler?! I vote no. And actually, she was really nice.
So I was speculating with my mom as to why I hate the doctor. I just do! I love the dentist, but I hate going to the doctor. We finally decided that it must be because sometimes doctor's have bad news. Like, what if they take all their tests and the doctor tells me I have three weeks to live? Or what if she takes one look inside my ears and tells me I have a tumor in my ear? JUST WHAT IF, PEOPLE!! OKAY?!?!
I get real nervous about it.
So whilst I was praying my little heart out on the way to the doctor's office, my mother was patiently driving behind some numbskulls in the right-hand lane. Ordinarily, I would have been particularly perturbed by the other driver's bullheadedness, but considering my circumstances, I can't say I was doing much of anything besides complaining that I was hungry in between little inward outbursts of prayers. Like I said, I don't do well without food. I have extremely low blood sugar, and when it dips, I get grumpy, then I get tired, then I black out. Not good things, peeps, not good!
We waited for half an hour before I even got in to see the doctor. I woke up right before 8, and I didn't get in to see the doctor until ten minutes past 10. And then this teeny little girl, probably not even five feet tall walks into the waiting room wearing skinny jeans, ugg boots, a Drake t-shirt and a fur hat, tucks her little right foot underneath her left leg, and looks snugger than a bug in a rug sitting on that uncomfortable waiting room chair. Her fairy feet didn't even touch the ground! I mean, this girl was tiny. So I turn to my mom and tell her how I've always been really jealous of really short girls, because I'm nothing but legs and no matter how hard I try to fit into little spaces like that, it just doesn't work! Thank goodness she agreed with me, even if she was just trying to get me to calm down. Seriously, even five minutes I was saying something like, "They must have forgotten me. Should I go say something to the nurse?" "No, I do NOT want to be THAT patient..." "Are we at the wrong office?" "Was I supposed to give them another paper?" "What if all my information is wrong?"
I'm just now realizing how amazing my mom is for putting up with all of my nonsensical rambling. Thanks mom :) you're the best ever.
But let's be real. Doctors - usually they are old men. Right? Right. They have man hands. Right? Right. They're usually slightly scary looking. Right? Right. Sometimes they smell like old Old Spice. Don't fight me on this. I'm right. Swan dive.
Not to say that old man handy old spicey men aren't fabulous individuals, because my doctors who may or may not fit that description were fabulous individuals, but that doesn't mean I wasn't terrified to death every single time I walk into the office.
Also, I always get higher readings on my blood pressure and heart rate because I'm freakishly nervous. I have a really low heart rate, and a really low blood pressure, and actually... when I go to the doctor, my heart rate is always high, and my blood pressure is always normal (which is high for me... ). Which is always frustrating to say the least.
And then your doctor always has to ask you something like, "so... what's up?" And I almost wanna be like, "Well, you know, same old same old, how about you?" But instead I just stare at her with wide eyes for a second accompanied by a dull "uhhh...." and turn to my mom behind me, with yet another, "uhhhh... *gulp*... uhhhh.... well... I'm really tired all the time... and uhhhh..." and my mom interjects something about how I fall asleep on piles of clothes in the afternoons some days, and if it's not a pile of clothes, it's just the floor. "I uhhhhh.... " I turn back to stare at the mom again. Oh how mothers save the day. I honestly would have died without her. Of fright and stupidity. I honestly lost my memory somewhere between the blood pressure machine and the gray table/chair thing that I occupied at the time of the nonsensical rambling. All I could think about was that banana and granola bar waiting for me in my purse as soon as I got done with that blood work. That thought kept me sane.
And then came the pharmacy and the blood work. Wait in line, drop off prescription. Wait in line, get number for blood work. Get up, pick up prescription. Sit down, wait for number to be called. Proceed to people watch.
Finally. Oh heavens. Of course I would get the phlebotomist that wiggles the needle around every time she removes and inserts a vial, which there conveniently happened to be four of. I tell you what, I have become one squeamish little individual over the years. Maybe phlebotomy is just an organization of vampires that have figured out a way to dupe society into believing that doctor's actually need our blood for "test" when really it's just so this hoard of creepy people who like blood, a.k.a vampires, can continue to exist. Prove me wrong, I dare you. Just kidding. I don't feel like talking about blood that much.
And so, as lame as this blog post was, I just want you all to know that I do not like the doctor, but I do like my doctor's accent. Also, I survived it. Here's to the folks who can do what I can't! Here, here, Doctor Jacob-Fox, you foxy doctor, you.

Sweet dreams, gentle readers.