DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

I had a physical yesterday, my first in probably 10 years, spurred by the coincident realizations that [1] I have 0 sources of vitamin B12 in my (predominantly vegan) diet, and [2] I have more than 0 symptoms of B12 deficiency, or at least hypochondria. I put 1 and 2 together and got, naturally, B12. I decided to order a blood test, to see if I’d done any damage — my cholesterol, acid/alkaline balance, glucose, protein, or any number of measurements could be whacked. All this healthy living can be dangerous.

Modern American healthcare, or insurance, anyway, requires a doctor’s intervention for labwork. I couldn’t simply order a full metabolic panel and expect the folks at Blue Whatever to cover the tab. But then the doctor chided me for having gone so many years without a “full physical,” which, according to modern American healthcare, or insurance, anyway, means having a medical professional with six years of training spend approximately eight minutes asking dumb questions like “when was your last physical?” I caved in and scheduled a physical after the bloodwork came back.

At the beginning of the physical, a nurse recorded my pulse at 80 bpm. It’s usually 60. I attribute the elevated rate to the presence of the tube of Aqua-Gel on the side table. Fortunately, though, Dr. Jellyfinger didn’t make an appearance. His kindly counterpart Dr. L_____ (you can tell them apart by the rubber glove) informed me that the DRE can wait until I turn 40.

My blood test, as expected, showed the classic sign of a non-supplemented veganesque diet, namely an elevated homocysteine level, a precursor to coronary artery disease, stroke, and thromboembolism. Apparently all those warnings about B12 supplements for vegans aren’t kidding. I ordered some B12 supplements.

The doctor also recommended that I get a tetanus shot. The primary symptom of the need for a tetanus booster is the inability to remember the date of one’s last tetanus booster.

A nurse entered the room with a syringe full of a sickly yellow substance. “This goes into the muscle,” she said. “It’s going to hurt.” The nurse has apparently not learned the power of suggestion, or maybe she was disappointed about the whole Aqua-Gel thing. I bared an arm with growing dread. I’d survived the recent blood test, but in general, needles give me the screaming heebie-jeebies. It’s fine for doctors and nurses and even you to be all cavalier about it — “it’s a simple injection, for Chrissakes” — but let’s see you say that when you’ve got a fucking needle sticking into your arm.

“Err, I’m not sure I really need that shot,” I offered like a man grasping desperately for the slick edge of the buoy just before a thousand-ton wave crashes down on his head. The nurse held up the syringe and gave me a look like I can’t exactly put this shit back in the bottle, and began swabbing my arm. She asked if I ever cook meat (no!) or work in the yard (no!) and seemed somewhat bothered that I genuinely had a near-zero risk of exposure to tetanus bacteria. In the end I swallowed my fear, and I think a little bit of the previous night’s dinner, and I allowed her to administer the shot. She was all pro. It was over before I knew it started.

She was right about the pain. It’s 24 hours later, and my arm feels like a truck drove over it. A truck full of linebackers, each of whom hopped out to punch me in the arm, just below the shoulder. With brass knuckles. With little diamond studs set into the front. I’m afraid to peel off the little round band-aid; I think the bone might be showing.