As I told you back in March, I have a Google Alert on the
phrase “Tree of Death” in an effort to keep tabs on my book. This has
inadvertently kept me up to date on all the horrifying news from around the
globe of the interesting and bizarre way people die at the hands (limbs?) of
trees on a daily basis. Since we own six full-size trees, I decided to update
our life insurance, for obvious possible tree-related reasons.
One of the fun parts about buying life insurance, besides
the phone interview, is the home health exam. A highlight of this exam is when
you get to bring an open-top container of your own urine to your dining room
table for someone to scrutinize. We’ll get back to that.
My wife and I had our home medical examinations scheduled
for 8:00 A.M. on a Saturday. The nurse showed up conveniently at 7:30 A.M.
She may have been early because I’m guessing breakfast at
the nursing home is around 5:00 A.M. or so. I’m not saying she works at the
nursing home, I’m guessing she lives there. Now, I don’t want to insult Edna,
the travelling R.N., by calling her old, but let’s just say when she used to
work at the hospital in her younger days, it very well could have been the
first hospital.
The directives for the home health exam were no food or
drink except water twelve hours before the exam, and be prepared to give a
blood and urine sample. The blood is no problem, since I always carry it with
me, but trying to “be ready to pee” is a different thing. I had to pee at 7:00
A.M., but decided to hold it, just in case. I was actually relieved that she
was a half-hour early.
Trying to be a gentleman, I let my wife go first. Actually,
she just told me she was going first because she really needed to pee. I am not
a gentleman; I was just too stupid to argue. That was a mistake. I realized, as
I hopped around in the other room, that I was well past the point of no return
regarding urination. I should have gone at seven o’clock. I could have drank
enough water to be ready again by the time it was my turn. Now Edna was already
here. If I peed now, there was no way I could re-fill the tank in time. Not
with just water. Beer, maybe, but not water. Dammit!
When it was finally my turn, I danced into the dining room
and sat down with Edna. She had a certain order that she needed to fill out the
parchment forms with her inkwell and her feather quill, so I was forced to try
and sit still while her arthritic hands worked their magic. Fortunately, urine
was third on the to-do list and not all the way at the bottom near John
Hancock’s signature.
I am 6’-1” tall, and have been that tall ever since I
stopped growing taller. Edna, on the other hand, has no doubt been shrinking
over the years. I would put her at about 5’ even. After she wrote down all my
pertinent information in calligraphy, (two
score and one years aged), she tried to measure my height by reaching up to
put a ruler on my head and measuring up to the ruler with a small, flimsy metal
tape measure.
“I have you at six-foot-five.”
“Hmm. Sounds a bit high. I’m usually six-one.”
“OK, we’ll go with that. I don’t like to get up on chairs
anymore.”
“I understand.”
This got me thinking two things. The first was, “Holy cow, I
have to pee.” The second was, “What would the life insurance implications be if
Edna had written down 6’-5”?”
What if they did an autopsy on me when I died and found out
I was a full four inches shorter than shown on the policy? He lied about his height! Probably to get his height-to-weight ratio
more in line with our actuarial tables. This tub of lard was probably fishing
for a lower rate! Fraud!!! Sorry lady, payment denied!
Finally, after Edna had used her abacus to convert feet and
inches into cubits and scrawled her findings on the parchment, it was time to
pee. Yes!
This is where things started to go wrong for me. I blame
some of my poor judgment on my urgent need to urinate, but mostly on Edna’s
incredibly poor instructions. Still, truth be told, I should have figured it
out.
She handed me two small stoppered glass vials, about the
size of my pinky finger, and a little open-top plastic cup, roughly 1/4-cup in
size (or, in deference to Edna’s more familiar measurement systems, about
0.0002 hogshead, or 0.001 firkins).
“Fill these two vials, and fill this cup up just past the
little temperature gauge on the side. Don’t fill it up too much or it will
spill. Be careful with the vials, because they fill up fast.”
Now, looking back on the situation with non-yellow-eyed
clarity, what she should have said was, “Pee into this plastic cup, and fill it
up all the way. Then, when you are finished emptying the contents of your
bladder, and have the luxury of using both of your hands again, use this handy
little pour spout here on the side to fill the two glass vials, and just make
sure not to pour out the rest until I have read the temperature gauge on the
side of the cup here.”
Those instructions would have been a whole lot better. As it
was, I grabbed the three containers, ran for the bathroom, and followed her instructed
order of events.
Filling the first vial took about a half a second… Now what?
I can’t put the stopper in this thing one-handed, and I can’t set it down
without the stopper in it… Must think fast…
Now, I won’t go into all the details of what happened in
that bathroom, but suffice it to say, I managed to fill all three containers,
and let’s just leave it at that.
It was only when I was walking back into the dining room
that I noticed the cup had a little pour spout.
“OHHHH…”
“What was that, dear?”
“Nothing. Never mind. Here’s my urine. Please don’t set it
on the table.”
Edna read the temperature and handed the cup back to me.
“You can throw this away now.”
“Gladly.”
After we had both washed our hands (again) she took my
blood, surprisingly with a needle and not leeches, and then we were done. She
packed up her bag and pulled out her iPhone to check the time.
“Oh, good. I’ll be early to my next appointment. I have a
full day, but hopefully I can make it back to Shady Acres for the late dinner
serving at three o’clock.”
“Good luck with that, Edna. I’ll be here cleaning the bathroom.”
“What was that, dear?”
“Never mind.”
See you soon,
-Smidge
Copyright © 2014 Marc Schmatjen
