Doctor’s Prescription in Spain: More Meat, More Wine, More Fat, More Excitement(1)
I can’t even start this post without smiling, because the experience was so odd and enjoyable, the mere thought of it brings a big broad toothy grin to my face. My cat is even looking at me odd as I giggle alone, thoroughly enjoying the moment.
I’ll let you in on my little secret, I love doctors!
I didn’t use to love doctors. They scared the living crap out of me for years, as they knew me by my provider number, rather than my first name. I’ve experienced more than one occasion when a doctor has hovered over me - complete with powdery, plastic gloves - totally oblivious as to who I am. “Okay….Mssss….umm…Opaz, you can stand up and get dressed now.”
“Yeah, thanks buddy. Last I checked, my parents were sweet enough to provide me with a first name that you’re welcome to use.”
Three years and counting since we’ve squatted on Spanish soil, and I haven’t found myself rushing out to get a physical. I figure that if my limbs aren’t falling off, and I’m not foaming at the mouth, I’m doing pretty well. But having turned 32 last November, I thought it wise to have a little check-see to ensure that all those internal liquids are still working up to speed.
So I made an appointment two months ago to get a physical. Called ‘una analytica’, NOT ‘una fisica’ -a mistake I’ve made on more than one occasion, I was finally able to see my doctor two weeks later.
“So what can I do for you” she says to me.
“I’d like a physical”, I respond while rolling up my sleeves assuming that my blood pressure would be the first act of the afternoon.
“Okay, well, take this piece of paper up to the receptionist and she’ll schedule you.”
A little perplexed, I unroll my sleeves back down, get up, and walk out, wondering why she shoved me out the door three minutes after I walked through it. Shuffling over to the receptionist, I handed her the paper, and was promptly given an appointment to get my blood drawn in one month’s time. A month!! The irony is that I gave blood the following day at the local Red Cross and received my results faster than I did from my local physician.
Needless to say, a month quickly passed, I gave blood, and returned for a fourth appointment to get my results.
Here’s where the fun begins.
As I walk directly into the office, a small perky nurse jumps out of her seat and shakes my hand. Sitting back down with a sweet nymph like grin on her face, her large thick glasses balancing precariously on the ridge of her nose fall to one side as she says, “Hi Gabriella (notice the first name!), I’m not your doctor but I’ll be telling you all about YOU today. Is that okay?”
“Ahhh, sure”, I respond with one eyebrow cocked upwards, a little skittish as to what Little Ms. Prozac was going to come out with next.
“Well, I’ve checked over all your charts with the doctors (how many doctors does it take to read my chart??) and they all seem to think that you are in great health. However, they do have one concern, your iron level. It appears that it’s a touch low, and so we suggest you eat some more red meat.
