What an… incredibly lazy… day.

We… slept in and… had leftovers for… breakfast and lunch.

No… outside please.

But I promised you the follow-up for the egotistical hematologist. Here we go. Then more cuddletime.

I was told that the doctor would call me the following day (Thursday) and I decided to do my chores in the morning, as I felt pretty awful and figured it would be better to feel awful and finish grocery shopping with a nice chunk of time before I’d have to cook. Well, the plan worked brilliantly as I had time to catch Star Trek.

I remember remembering that my cell phone was still on about 25 minutes into the movie, but figured no one was going to call. I was wrong. It rang about 30 minutes later. Despite firmly pressing both of my palms against the phone in my pocket (and I’m happy to see you), I could still hear the muffled buzzing. Luckily the cast of Saved By the Enterprise was engaged in a battle with loud explosions, so I drew no dirty glances.

When I left the theater, I turned on my phone and heard the following voicemail:

“Hi, Jed… this is ______ calling from Dr. ______’s office? Um… the doctor wanted me… to set up an appointment with you… for another blood test… in two weeks.”

Now, what I was told by Dwarfy McPantsuit was that she (not a representative or ambassador — SHE) would call me after she got the results to discuss them. At issue is my white blood cell count. My last two blood draws showed it was low. Not OMG!!! low, but Gee, maybe you should take a closer look at this in case it’s worse than it seems low. If nothing was wrong, I expected a “Hi, Jed, the test is fine and we should do another one in ___ weeks.” to which I would reply “Let me get back to you.” which I planned on never doing.

If it was not good news, I expected the doctor to say that I needed to come in to discuss the results (bad news over the phone = rare [in the medical world that I imagine existing but might actually not]). And since there’s a chance that I might say, “No, tell me over the phone! I can handle it!” I imagine that bad news appointments are scheduled by the receptionist so she can claim ignorance (somewhat credibly).

My mouth started to get very dry (the satchel of popped corn I had just inhaled helped) and my heart sank. How will I be able to take care of Teresa while dealing with my own newly-discovered blood disease? How much more of this shit are we supposed to get dumped on us before that garbage bag of money turns up? The message continued.

“Dr. ____ got your test results back and… everything is OK… but she wants you to do a follow-up the week of the 25th. Please give me a call at ______.”

Was that the kind of message they give to the dying? That “everything is OK… but”? So that you go in to your revelatory follow-up with calmness? I got home and called this woman back.

“Hi, my name is Jed Resnik? I think you left me a message an hour ago?”

“Yes. We need to make you a follow-up appointment.”

“Uh-huh. See, Dr. ____ told me that she was going to call me to discuss my results today. But now she wants me to come into her office so she can discuss them face-to-face with me?”

“Um… no. The test results were fine. Nothing bad. But she wants to make sure that this test wasn’t a fluke, so you set up an appointment for the week of the 25th, go to Lenox Hill that morning and Dr. _____ will be able to discuss your results when you see her at ____.”

Part of me was thinking, “Screw this. I needed this woman’s OK for my shot, which I’m getting tomorrow, and to make sure my blood is strong like bull. I got the OK and my blood is strong like bull. Leave this member of the Lollipop Guild to her mirror-gazing and armchair diagnoses. She just wants your co-pay!” But another equally vocal part of me was thinking, “Your doctor did a second test before suggesting a hematologist. Second tests seem like a good idea. If the second test is good then you can live a happy life secure in the knowledge that, as of 2009, you have healthy blood. In your overweight, rarely exercising husk. That seems cheap at $10.”

So I set up a follow-up appointment. Makes sense to cross my teas and dot my eyes (whatever that means). But I hate this woman. And now I hate her stupid receptionist who left me a vague message that seemed (to me, anyway) to imply that I might be ill.

The pain in my back (30 hours after the shot) is weird. It’s a more preferable pain in some ways, but I feel like a kid on Christmas Eve. I just want the morning to get here so I can find out if I like my presents or not.

And there you have it. I’ll go back to the well of the Post tomorrow. Until then, sleep well and shut up.