Today I spoke like Scooby Doo, an improvement over my eerie silence on Sunday. My doctor and I chattered away, he like a jolly Christmas elf, as he rose to the challenge--getting me to talk professionally for my taped interview in the morning. I gave him 16 hours to get me in shape and so I endured a shot, and a double-dose of mixed drugs.
While I waited for a nurse to prick me in both the butt (throat super solider serum) and arm (cholesterol screening), I looked across the room at the racks of informational brochures on all that ails the middle-aged patient: Acid reflux, frequent bladder urges, heart disease, diabetes, H1N1, restless leg syndrome--you name it, they had a smiling face on the front cover. Each diagnosed condition warranted a delighted model, but I was unsure if these indicated joyfully recovered individuals, or hopeful soldiers ready to endure with joy in their hearts.
In the end, the doctor told me not to talk until just before interview time, so I've nodded gamely at question upon question from my five kids, sat quietly in the corner during my son's Cub Scout meeting, and comforted my wife with listening eyes and a hug. I've just finished a chaser of lemons upon lemons with honey, it must be doing something--my throat reacted with ferocious gagging. T-minus 10 hours now.
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