After getting shot in both arms
When the alarm went off this morning, for the second time, little did I think that within the hour I would be shot in both arms. Dangerous living? Not so much. In the ongoing battle to avoid seasonal illness, my reservation had been made weeks ago to meet with a local doctor and discuss my options. Seeing your doctor on a regular basis is important. If you don’t appear at least once every five years on the rolls, the clinic assumes you are deceased, (or worse, moved away) and your place is given to other waiting members of our socialized medicine regime.
I’m there, I’m ready with my sleeve rolled up, and the doctor seizes the opportunity to stick a pointed object right into the fleshy section of my “just below the shoulder” with a calming reassurance that this won’t hurt much. It didn’t, much, so the professional continued with an offer I shouldn’t refuse. Now that I was safe against last year’s strains of influenza, perhaps this was a good moment to use my other arm. After all, there was an extra flask of anti-pneumonia vaccine on hand, and “waste not, want not” is the modicum of the morning. Remember, this won’t hurt much either.
There’s a distant memory from having pneumonia a long time ago. Something about trying to walk down a winding staircase holding a glass of cold water in a peanut butter glass with a Mountie printed on the outside and arriving at the bottom rather abruptly and then going to the hospital where I met a girl that lived on the hill in St. Peter’s Bay. Let’s avoid repeating such experiences. Vaccinate to your heart’s content, dear doctor.
Here I am, hours later; my two arms feel as if I’d been lugging bricks around, and I refuse to climb any ladders due to my fear of heights. I’ll probably survive being shot in both arms, and the added warm thought of an extra block of vacation time next year if my health holds up (we can convert unused sick days into unused vacation time; it makes perfect sense when you think about it, quickly).
