Saturday, April 2, 2016

Waiting to get a blood test

I was asked the other day to think of the one place I'd like to be. I thought of watching a sunset at Key West, watching football at at Super Bowl party, hanging at the bar with male friends, hanging out in an art museum with female friends?  Walking around in downtown Lisbon? No, I decided, the place in the world I love the best is the waiting room at Labcorp.

I can think of no other place in my travels where you meet a happier group of people. Everybody is hungry, since most of them are fasting. The drinkers are starting to get irritable because they could use a drink about now. The old people are wondering if at the end of the day, this blood test will put them in a nursing home. The television is on too loud and appears to be aimed at the lowest level of intellect. Loud with clowns and lots of cheering. What's to cheer about at ten o'clock in the morning?

I walked in and wanted to fill in my name and the time. I couldn't find a pen. The clerk pointed at the daisies. Apparently the pens are disguised as flowers. They probably beep if you walk away with them. Some people cheat on the time. I guess they figure if they write an earlier time than it is you will get in earlier.

A scream, "help wanted in room one!"  Two staff people run into the crisis room where perhaps the patient is gushing blood. I think to myself, "Golly I hope this doesn't tie things up" instead of praying for the possibly dying person in room number one. It's every man for himself at the blood test office.

Now I am at the service desk. "No blood work done unless you can produce a current credit card!" is the sign on the desk. It is nice to know we live in a trusting society. I am given a small yellow plastic receptacle. That is for "you know what". At least nobody said the "p" word.

Soon I am out of the place. I can have a greasy breakfast of eggs and Canadian bacon and a few beers after 5. Suddenly the world is a happier place. At least until I get the results.

No comments:

Post a Comment