Is there a Nurse...I Mean, a Doctor in the House?

Sometimes there's not enough Kleenex in the world. You know what I mean...when your nose is feeling like:

It's fixing to fall off
It's fixing to blow
You wish it would fall off
All of the above

But then. A blond haired, blue-eyed nurse tells you to bare your arm, she's going to take your blood pressure, totally unaware that sometimes this is all it takes to get your blood pumping, and miracle cure, someone is feeling better (at least for the moment), and what was dying on the examining table is suddenly sitting wide-eyed. Imagine that.

I need to take your blood pressure, she says.
The shirt is ripped off the body like David Beckham’s in the house.

See my muscle shirt?

Nice shirt, she says.

The blood pressure cuff is wrapped around the arm.

Relax your arm.

I da Hulk, he says.

I do believe he's turning green, I say.

He shoots me a look, like, shut up, shut, up, already.

The nurse is pumping the thingy that squeezes the arm.

She looks down. He looks at me like, "Owe!" He looks at her, like, “ata-girl.”

Wow, you did great, she says.

The Doctor will be in to see you soon. The door closes.

He watches the door, hoping to catch one more glimpse of the pretty "blondt" nurse, and who can blame him?

The door opens and the Doctor walks in. He introduces himself.

The shoulders that were so proud moments ago deflate like a punctured balloon.

We're dying again.

Open your mouth. Say ahh.

There's a tongue depressor in the mouth.

How long has this been going on?

Well, it was there, then it went away, then it came back again about two minutes ago when the nurse left. The doctor smiles.

So, he’s not so impressed with me? The doctor says.

Sorry, Doc, you’re the wrong gender.

Now, Charles, I'm going to look in your ears. He pokes a thingy in the ear.

Are there any brains in there, Doctor?

The patient scowls.

The diagnosis: bronchitis.

I'll write a prescription, he says. You can pick it up on your way out.

Could you write a prescription for stubbornness while you're at it?

The Dr. smiles again. The patient scowls again.

The door closes. The patient is fading. Oh, ooooh, I sick, Mom.

I pat his hand. You will be better soon, I promise.

No not, I SICK. Meaning, can I stay home today?

Well then, I guess you won't be able to see that nurse on your way out.

Presto! The shoes are on, the jacket is on, and the muscle man is out the door.

Bye Charley, says the nurse.

Bye, Purty.

I look at this child of mine. This funny little Hulk. On Friday he is supposed to see a heart specialist (it's common to have routine tests performed on individuals who take the kind of medicine he takes).

He'll go to the appointment, God willing, if he's feeling better.

The waiting room is filled. Not a seat to spare. On the way out my young man says hi to every last person in the room.

Someone sneezes.
You better soon, I promise...he says, waving.

Sometimes there's just not enough Charley in the world. And I promise you, there's not a thing wrong with his heart.