Joe Vampire

POST 8



Cold Hands, No Heart



I never seem to realize how little I go to the doctor until I actually need one and can’t remember where the office is. It’s probably that way for most people – especially guys. We can be suffering through a severe bout of Stabbed in the Thigh with a Butcher’s Knife, and somehow just knowing there’s a chance we’ll get our sac squeezed and checked for lumps if we see a doctor will keep us locked in a bathroom, safe and warm and whimpering while we bleed to death. We’d rather just let it work itself out, thanks.

But that cat biting thing kind of got to me.

I figured maybe this one wasn’t going to work itself out.

It was easier to find the clinic than it was to update my paperwork once there, especially after getting stuck behind a girl who couldn’t understand why they wouldn’t take her Groupon for sixty-two percent off a Brazilian as a discount on her vitamin B prescription. When she asked if she could cover her bill using PayPal, the receptionist made her pay cash and gave her a pamphlet explaining the dangers of inhaling propellants. I think it might have fallen on deaf nostrils.

I sat for twenty minutes, refusing to touch the wrinkly magazines on the table and running through every possible ending for this appointment. No matter how I boiled it down, I couldn’t find a valid explanation for what was happening. I had no choice; I would leave it to group-insured medical science to sort out the reasons why I tried to eat a house cat. I read somewhere online that they can make a penis out of a toe.

Something like this should have been a slam dunk.

The nurse called me back in the middle of my mental excuse making. She was a small, round woman who was way happier than her profession was supposed to allow, all smiles and goofy chatter as we walked. She called me “mister” and giggled after everything she said even though none of it was funny, like a living LOL to end her sentences. That sort of unprompted happiness was irritating as hell in light of my disturbing condition, and her My Little Pony scrubs only made matters worse. For a minute I thought I‘d ended up in a pediatrician’s office by mistake. I was so relieved when I saw the exam room was filled with adult sized furniture and literature explaining the causes of erectile dysfunction. She had me change into a gown made out of paper towels and shoelaces, giggling at least four times as she explained which side was the front… and I’m pretty sure she was checking me out through the little window in the door while I changed. Something about her demeanor gave me the distinct feeling that she might be showing me more attention than she showed other patients. Sounds a little conceited, maybe, but that’s what it felt like. I hopped on the table and tucked my nuts when she came back in, because I was in no mood to be cupped or squeezed or checked for lumps, especially by Giggly Nurse Ponypants.

Every word out of her mouth from that point on was a compliment, and every compliment ended in a giggle. She slid her hands over my forearm as she secured the blood pressure cuff. “You have nice arms. You must work out a lot!” A total lie, since I know I have the all the muscle tone of a microwaved octopus. She squeezed the pump about a thousand times, let go and watched the needle fall all the way down to the bottom of the dial. Then she repeated it all twice more, but nothing registered. She figured it was a faulty machine, giggled, then moved on to my pulse. “Such smooth skin,” she said, and I squirmed, wishing I could tuck more than just my nuts. When she couldn’t find a pulse in my left wrist, she switched to the right one, giggled again like it was helping her concentrate, and still found nothing. “Well, someone isn’t very cooperative today! A little cold, too.” She swabbed my arm and ripped open a new syringe to take a blood sample. “Yeah,” I told her, “it’s kind of chilly in this room… especially when you’re wearing nothing but socks and a dress made out of Brawny.” She giggled, of course, just as the needle plunged into my flesh. I'll keep you warm, honey, like sweatpants at a bonfire, I heard her say. Only her lips didn’t move.

And it didn’t come through my ears.

“What did you say?” I asked.

“I said you seem cold," she told me. And giggled. Give me three seconds to drop these scrubs and me and my ladyshapes will snuggle the chill right out of you. I heard it clearly, but there were no lips moving, no giggle. And no blood in the vial, either. “This just isn't your day, mister. Maybe we should bring the doctor in now to see what he makes of this… you just sit tight.” She patted my knee too many times, and I flinched, waiting for another creepy come-on and trying to process the fact that I had no blood pressure, no blood flow and no pulse. And apparently I could read minds. When she was out of the room, I grabbed a stethoscope from the counter and listened to my own heartbeat, needing some reassurance that I was still healthy on at least some level. There was nothing. So I moved the scope left and right, and up against my neck. Still nothing.

This made the cat-eating thing look like a hang nail.

Suddenly, I had no desire to share my declining medical state with anyone else. I tore off the gown, untucked my nuts and threw on my clothes while making a dash for my car. Then I sped home and just sat still with my hand on my chest, listening for my heart to beat in my ears like you do sometimes when you’re falling asleep. Just like before, there was no heartbeat. And after that, there was no real falling asleep, either.

I saw Hube that night at band practice. He could tell I was totally shaken up even though I tried to play it off. He asked if I’d seen the doctor. “No, but I saw the nurse… and she sure saw me.” I left out all the disturbing details, about the giggling and the touching. And the missing vital signs. He wasn’t happy to find out I hadn’t accomplished anything. Something about his sideways glance told me he wasn’t going to let this go.

Lazer was his typical a*shole self. “You still look like shit.”

“You, too. But I’ve been sick; yours is the unfortunate byproduct of inbreeding.”

“So’s your tiny dick, assface.” Such an enriching experience, being in this band.

Hube broke it up. “Claws in, ladies. Let’s make some music.” So we played. But my mind was elsewhere, and my heart wasn’t really into it, either.

In fact, I had no idea where my heart was at all.