I’ve been complaining for the past three weeks about the plague that’s over-taken our lovely square-shaped abode.
The boy kicked things off with a stellar four-day 103-temperature caused by a lovely viral infection.
I quickly followed by becoming victim #2.
I’ll save you the details and leave you with the knowledge that my wife is a freakin’ saint for having to deal with sick me.
Then…the girl caught it.
Envision Gary Coleman stuck in quicksand, wearing a straight jacket, while saying the ABCs backwards and trying his hardest to take steroids away from Hulk Hogan. That’s what my daughter’s immune system is like trying to fight any sickness.
For five days she’s been dealing with a fever, pink eye in both eyes, and yesterday morning…puking.
So, yesterday afternoon we decided enough’s enough and that’s when we took her to the doctor.
I’m a bit of a germ freak…for the main reason that I don’t want to get sick. So walking into a pediatrician’s office is like asking me to lick just one ball from a Chuck-E-Cheese ball pit.
My visits usually start with me walking in holding all the door handles so my already sick daughter doesn’t – stupid, I know.
I walk up to the counter and immediately locate and use the hand sanitizer thingy.
I then sign in and get another squirt after putting the pen down.
This is followed by me having to pick the pen back up to sign my co-pay receipt which is quickly followed by another sanitizing squirt.
I’m exhausted just writing this.
We make it back to the waiting room and that’s when the doctor rolls in.
Completely ignoring me he walks up to my daughter and asks her what’s been wrong. Knowing damn well my six-year-old shy-as-hell daughter wasn’t going to give him the blow-by-blow of her illness I chimed in.
He looks her over, does some kid-friendly stuff to get her to cooperate, then gets on the computer to log-in the diagnosis while we wait.
That’s when it happens.
The man turns to me, looks me in the eyes for a split second, closes his eyes and proceeds to explain to me his diagnosis of my daughter’s current condition without opening his eyes again.
I’m sitting there all “is this guy for real? Is this a joke? Should I wave my hand in front of his eyes to see if maybe he’s just got lazy eyelids? Should I look at my daughter and ask her if she’s watching this freaky shit go down too? Should I kindly reach out and thump him in the forehead? Is he broken?”
I was overwhelmed with what was happening right before my eyes!
He was an eye-closing talker.
People who close their eyes for extended periods of time while talking to you scare the shit out of me.
As do:
- The person that looks ever-so-slightly above your head and to the left as they’re talking to you. It freaks me the hell out! Do they see dead people behind me?
- The cold limp handshake giver. That will seriously get you throat-punched.
- The mumbler. Nothing more needs to be said.
- The crowder. I need my space damn it. Respect it. Just because we’re sharing words doesn’t mean I want you to see, smell and almost taste what you had for lunch.
- The pontificator. The guy who talks to you with his hands behind his back the entire time. Why? It’s not even comfortable…not since you were in the third grade!
- And of course the antithesis of the eye-closing talker…the starer. Every conversation to this person is a staring contest. When you look away just so you can freakin’ blink again you expect this person so scream “I WIN!!”
Finally, the eye-closed talking doctor opened his eyes scaring the ever loving shit out of me because I was leaning so far forward trying to figure him out.
Fumbling around gathering my daughter and my things I thanked him and left in a huge rush, even forgoing the hand sanitizing as I leave ritual.
Walking to the car in the parking lot I got the wife on the phone.
Wife: “So, what’s wrong with her?”
Me: “The doctor closes his eyes when he speaks, honey.”
Wife: “What ?”
Me: “Yeah…I got the doctor who keeps his eyes closed the ENTIRE time he’s talking to you. Do you realize how insanely freaky that is to me? Have you seen this guy?”
Wife: “Wow…really? Seriously? Can you not just tell me what is wrong with our daughter?”
Me: “Oh shit.”
Wife: “What? Where’s Macy? Did you leave her in there?”
Me: “No, I have her right here but I was so busy obsessing about the eye-closed talking doctor that I didn’t hear anything he said.”
I quickly concluded that since I didn’t walk out with any prescriptions it must be a viral infection. Genius…I know.
I also concluded that not only do I hope to never come in contact with freaky eye-closed talking doctor again…but I’m definitely going to be him for this Halloween.
