Samhain Publishing

A recent trip to the doctor reminded me why I don’t like doctor’s visits. While it’s nothing personal against the medical profession I have found myself the subject of a medical anomaly on many an occasion.

On a recent visit my new doctor wanted to make sure that my low blood sugar wasn’t in fact diabetes. Though I was diagnosed as hypoglycemic years before she wanted to be sure. “I just want to be sure.” She says. “Though you’re very thin, there is a possibility and I want to be sure it’s in fact low blood sugar. The nurse will come in prick your finger and test your blood. It will only take a few seconds.” She assured me. I consented. A few seconds of my time to double check was nothing.

The nurse comes in a well seasoned pleasant and very professional. “I’ll just prick you quick and it’ll be over.” She smiles at me. I turn away because I hate needles. True to her word she pricks me hard and quick. I can feel her squeezing my finger rather briskly. This was followed by “Oh this has never happened before, you won’t bleed. I’m sorry I’m going to have to prick you again.” I nodded as she went out the door and came back with another lance. I give her another finger, which she assures me this should be it. Again I turn away. A sharp prick ensues and still the nurse is repeating her actions. “ I’m so sorry I can’t believe this is happening. You aren’t bleeding enough. In fact you won’t bleed at all.” She looks at me with a peculiar look. “You must have really small veins.” I told her I did indeed and that I simply wasn’t a bleeder. She tells me she’ll be back; she has to get another lance. She must poke me again.

At this point it should be clear why I dread doctor visits. She comes back smiling. I can see however that she is worried that at this third try I might not bleed. “I’m going to really have to jab you hard sweetie.” She apologizes. I assure her I understand. But I’m not happy. “Words I love to hear.” I respond jokingly. True to her word she jabs me-hard. I refrain from crying out. I can hear her muttering but can’t make out the words. I don’t have to be a mind reader to know what’s going on. She’s massaging my arm, pointing my hand down and squeezing my finger. The nurse is determined not to have to jab me again. Bless her, because I didn’t think I could sit through it again. After a few seconds she cries out in triumph. She has managed to squeeze out a whole whopping drop! As it turns out I have low blood sugar. My doctor advises me to eat something after the appointment.

The nurse offers me three band-aids just in case I bleed. She examines my fingers and can’t believe there’s not a drop of blood anywhere. Not even a sign where she pricked me. After assuring her that I am human she shuffles out of the room. On the drive home my poor fingers are throbbing. I look down to see all three fingers bruised at the tips. I laugh out loud. You gotta love the irony.

Occasionally I like to take stock of myself. I like to reflect inwardly, list things I still want to work on, set goals, resolve conflicts that sort of thing. Upon one such reflection I noticed something rather odd about myself. I see the world as a book, a menagerie of books to be honest. Now upon further contemplation this really shouldn’t have come as a shock. After all I can’t count the number of times my sister would say to me “You speak as if you’re writing a book.” I hate to admit this but she had something. As a writer I have now noticed that I see the world as a collection of stories and characters. I see the character in people’s faces, the quirks that make them unique, the situations that brings turmoil.

Many endings to these live novellas aren’t happy. Some are funny and surprisingly some have been romantic. I am constantly looking at my surroundings taking
mental notes. When I am asked to recall a particular event, people are often amazed at the details I remember. This has led me to often be nominated to
tell stories of events that have happened. Inevitably it ends in me being corralled into telling the same story over and over again to fresh ears. My
nominators want to share the experience. I have just began to realize that by me looking at the world the way I do, I have become in essence, a narrator. I can’t help it. I see stories, characters, scenes conflicts all around me and I can’t help but try to take it all in so I can remember them later when I’m writing. I often wonder how odd this makes me. Do other writers suffer from this affliction? How can a writer turn off their creative brain? Does it turn off?

My inner reflections often end in me coming to terms with at least one conflict or goal. I have decided that if this quirk of mine makes me odd then so be it. I love
stories, in all its forms. So I have surmised that if all of the world is a book, I’ve still a lot of delightful catching up to do.