Memoirs of the Mundane - Doc

I sauntered cautiously up to the door of the building (as one does when one approaches the door of building they've driven by half their life but never previously noticed).
I was stopped at the door by a masked mad-woman. "Halt, who goes there?"
"Uhh me I suppose." 
"Who is me?"
"Well you know, me as in I, as in the first person objective case pronoun."
"Ahh, I see. What is your quest?"
"I seek the sagely advice of the good Doctor Holliday."
"Very well then. What is your favorite color?"
"Hmm, I suppose Burgundy," I said.
"That's not a color, it's a region of France that happens to be 12,194 square miles."
"You know it well, I see. But aside from good wine country, it is also a color."
"How hot are you?"

Now I've been hit on by many middle-aged women before, but none so boldly!

"Uhh.... how hot do I look??" I stammered.
"No! No!" she replied with a glare, "your temperature."
She then proceeded to jam a thermometer into my ear—"all clear."

I was finally admitted through the door of the building that I'd driven by half my life but had never previously noticed.
Inside I was greeted by a foxy young receptionist (also masked) in a striped jumpsuit that was too 70's for even Earth Wind and Fire to handle! She winked at me (or so I imagined, having not seen a woman in nearly a month due to quarantine) as she handed me a mound of paperwork that would rival Cervantes' famed novel Don Quixote in size.

I took a seat and began checking boxes, trying to learn latin on the fly—so that I could bloody understand what these people wanted from me.

Anisakiasis  "hmm, that sound nice." CHECK.
Folliculitus  "ehh, I think I'll pass on that one."
Molluscum Contagiousum  "Can't be that bad. Nothing serious ever starts with 'M'." CHECK.

After about 5 hours of that, and writing the entire Knapp family medical history from now back to the birth of Christ, I had finally finished.

I turned my novel in to the foxy receptionist (who winked again—naturally) and was ushered back by a middle-aged woman who was surely named Karen, and did no winking.
She ordered my shoes off and barked at me to stand on the scale. It was at that time that I found out for certain that Karen was an American. The scale was set to Kilograms and she could not figure out how to operate the scale. Luckily, one learns many skills as a missionary, and I was able to translate.
Then the height measurement. I came in at 5' 11.85" Apparently Karen has yet to discover the art of rounding. But then again, that could work to my advantage, as all the police officers around here know me as being 6'.

After that, Karen locked me in a room and told me to behave myself until the good Doctor Holliday could come. She left without a wink.

Some time later, the good Doc staggered in.
"You must be Morgan." I nodded. "Look Karen, it's Morgan. Deadliest pistolier since Wild Bill, they say. Forgive me if I don't shake hands."
"And you must be Doc Holliday."
"That's the rumor," He said, glaring at me over the brim of his face mask.
"Well now, pistolier, what can we help you with?"
"I think I may be dying Doc. I may have Celiac Disease."
"In Vino Veritas?"
"No, no, Celiac Disease."
"Well, you're a daisy if you do."
The good doctor proceeded to examine my vitals. When it was time for the famous part of every physical, I asked "do you really think it wise that I cough at a time like this?"
"It appears my hypocrisy knows no bounds" he retorted.

As the physical wound down and the blood test drew ever closer, I became nervous and began having second thoughts—blood is not my thing.

"Uhh Doc, I think I'll just uhh head home now. Thanks for your time."
"I beg to differ, sir. We started a game we never got to finish. Play for blood—remember?"

Just then Karen burst in. "Doc, we've got an emergency in room 4."
"I'm your huckleberry," he said as he stood up and raced out.
I was left with Karen. "Uhh Karen, the doc said that I was good to go."
"Nice try pistolier. You're coming with me." She said. And the look on her stone-cold unwinking face told me that I had no say in the matter.

Karen pushed me into a padded room in the back and strapped me into a chair.
As she finished ratcheting the straps, another masked figure appeared in the doorway. The lights flickered. The masked figure stepped forward. I glanced at the name on the badge. Dr. Kevorkian it read. My eyes widened. Just as I let out a scream, Karen slammed the door shut, muffling my cries in the padded room.

Fortunately for me, it turns out that I am also dyslexic. Dr. Kevorkian turned out to be Dr. Kirkeavon.
A great sigh of relief.
The Dr. pulled open the drawer of needles; it makes me woozy even writing about it!
"I'm going to stick your arm. Do you have one that has better veins than the other?"
"Do I look like a heroin junkie to you? How am I supposed to know?"

I started to feel a little weak as the needle glided slowly towards my arm. "Training, don't fail me now, I thought!"

We interrupt this broadcast to give you an explanation: The Pistolier aka Morgan, does not do well with real blood, guts, or gore—especially when it is his own. He typically goes into shock when needles are involved. But, as he is fully aware of this, he has been practicing for years and years by watching incredibly graphic surgical procedures online to hopefully overcome this weakness. And that is a true story. 100%. Also, he does not recommend watching any videos of hockey goalies that involve skates and throats. *runs to the bathroom to vomit*

Resume broadcast.
As the needle drew ever closer my mind raced "watch. Not watch. Watch? Not watch? You've got this. Deep breaths. Deeper. Deeper! Ouch!"
If I pass out right now and don't finish this, I'm sorry dear reader.


Dr. Kirkeavon twirled the needle around in my arm desperately searching for a vein.
Every profanity in the known book flashed before my lips, but did not escape.
After about two minutes, or more likely, two days, the room looked like another scene from Monty Python. Well, if you don't catch the reference, that's your own fault (it involves a lot of spurting blood).

At last, the process was complete. I thanked Buddha, Mother Mary, St Stephen, the ghost of Marilyn Monroe, and the Good Lord that my training had worked! For the first time in my life, I did not go into shock—at least not totally. I felt the onset, but battled it off. Deep breaths. Deeeeeeeeeep breaths.

After getting bandaged up, I made like a tree and got the hell out of there (I got out so fast that my simile didn't even have time to make sense). I didn't even stop long enough to see if the foxy receptionist was still winking.

And the worst part is: I still don't even know if I have Celiac Disease. I have to wait until next week to know if my life is over or not.