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Whenever possible, I take my wife to all my doctor appointments. It saves a lot of blood pressure points for both of us.
It's not that I need someone to hold my hand. But I don't mind -- needles still frighten me even after more than a half century of doctors' offices.
The problem is if I don't take her to the doctor, the post-visit debriefing when I get home causes more agony than whatever ailment sent me to the white coats in the first place.
"What did the doctor say?"
"I'm fine."
"What did he say about the red spot?"
"Nothing."
"He said nothing, you don't remember what he said, or you didn't tell him about the red spot?"
"He didn't... I don't... I might have forgotten to mention it."
(Heavy sigh.) "Well, what did he say about the scratch?"
"I'm fine."
"But what did he SAY?"
"He said... It's probably a... I dunno."
And on it goes until I can see the wish for a medical emergency forming in my sweet wife's eyes.
I groused about this weird behavior to a female co-worker. I thought she was rational and would understand, but she sided with Terry.
"I go to all my husband's appointments, too," she said. "I wouldn't know anything about how he's doing if I didn't."
I pushed my point. "Yeah, but does the doctor talk to your husband or to you?"
She arched her eyebrows in the way that teachers used to let me know that yes, there is such a thing as a stupid question. "The doctor talks to me, of course. Husbands don't register any details."
Now I know why I see so many wives with their husbands when I'm in the waiting room. Apparently, the doctor examines the men, then explains everything to the women.
I'm fine with that. I don't know why wives insist on knowing all those pesky details anyway. All the typical guy wants to know is will he survive until the Super Bowl, can he join his buddies on that fishing trip, and will he be able to eat something more substantial than salad? The rest is pointless.
Once after an annual physical -- which I faithfully submit to every seven or eight years or so -- I received a call from the doctor's office a week later. When I hung up, I told Terry, "My lab tests came back. Everything's fine."
"That's good. What was your cholesterol?"
"I dunno. It's fine."
"What about your glucose? Your HDL?"
"Fine. Fine."
"Do you at least remember the numbers for your blood pressure?"
"She said it's fine. Everything's fine. What more is there than that?"
"Don't you want to know your numbers?"
Numbers are almost as frightening as needles. It's best to avoid them. So no, I didn't want to know them. But I didn't say that out loud because I've lived with this woman long enough to know the correct answer.
I drove to the doctor's office and asked for a complete copy of my physical results. Terry read every word and studied every number on all six pages. She looked up and said, "These are good. You're fine."
I suspect that at that particular moment, my blood pressure wasn't fine. Not in the least. But since I couldn't see any numbers, I was fine. Just fine.
— Contact Burt's wife at burtseyeview@tribtoday.com or on the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook.