This morning’s annual physical exam went downhill at the mere mention of the blood test. My fight-or-flight instincts took over, and my head was as light as a hollowed egg. The worst thing I can do is to pretend nothing’s wrong, so I lay down on the exam table and whimper, “I’m a fainter! Have been my whole life!”
In potential pass-out situations like blood tests, I usually follow my father’s advice and tell a joke to keep my whirling mind occupied all the way to the punch line. But today, all wit eluded me. I looked glumly at the vampire: A formiable black woman who eyed me warily, having been briefed by my doctor that I’m, like, batshit insane about blood tests.
“I’m okay if I keep talking,” I tell her. She nods encouragingly as she readies my right arm. “Usually I tell a joke, but I can’t think of any at the moment.”
“Just keep talking,” she says. She speaks with a heavy accent that sounds Caribbean. “Make a fist.”
So dizzy that I’m not cognisant of my own speech, I plow on. “I’m going to talk about the French elections. There was Sarkozy on the right and Royal on the left. It’s kind of weird, but I was rooting for Sarkozy, because even though he’s on the right, it’s not like he was extreme. He wants sensible reform. He seemed level-headed, definately more in control of his emotions than Royal. She was unsure and inexperienced. And she played the gender card.”
I can feel the needle pinch my arm. “Release your fist,” the nurse says.
“But what really worried me was how she warned that people would riot if Sarkozy won. It’s sort of a self-fullfilling prophecy, because now they have riots. And that’s so undemocratic. You can’t riot after a democratic election. You can’t rally against the winner. The people have spoken.”
“All done,” she says, taping the bandage on my arm.
I breath a sigh. My triumph has restored me. “Thank you so much,” I say.
“Thank you for telling your joke,” she says, patting my shoulder.
