Because I lost my left
breast to a modified radical mastectomy twenty-one years ago, and because they
took all the lymph nodes they could find under that arm, I don’t have my blood
pressure taken on my left side. Nor do I have blood drawn from that arm. My doctor's nurse procured lots o' blood out of my right arm.
My second stop (after
picking up an Egg McMuffin—YUMMO—I had had to fast from midnight on…) was to a large medical clinic in town. I was
meeting with a surgeon who is not only a good friend of ours, but also a
fantastic doctor. Last summer, I promised my primary care physician, for the third
year in a row, that I would get a colonoscopy. I had my first one when I was 47. I was
due for my second at 57. I’d somehow gotten way, WAY past that deadline. Last year I almost
got this accomplished in Ft. Worth
I won’t bore y’all with ALL of the details of my two-hour visit to this doctor
and his clinic. (Not like I did my precious friend, Drew. I believe I told her every
little event that occurred in that time frame. Sorry, Dearest Drew.) My first
thirty-five minutes there were a complete train wreck. Won't tell all about that experience. Will simply say: Sheesh. Once I got in to
the exam room and started visiting with the doctor I so adore, he asked me if
I’d had bloodwork recently. I told him I’d just come from my primary care’s
clinic, but that I didn’t know what she’d ordered—besides the level of my
Vitamin D. He suggested, since I was there, I go ahead and get some
additional bloodwork and an EKG. These would be two tests the anesthesiologist
would want before putting me out/under for the scope.
From his office, I
proceeded to the Lab. A very kind young woman tried to get blood out of my
right arm. She had to call a supervisor. She had no success, either. After
wincing from the excruciating pain caused by the second tech digging around
that vein, I begged them, very politely, to go ahead and try sticking my left arm. Thank My Lord, it
worked.
Next, and while waiting for
my EKG, a woman whose age was somewhere between 80 and 84 (I’m not very good at
age-guessing any more, so I could be off a year or two on either end!), sat by
me in the waiting room. A woman about my age was helping this woman use her
walker. I noticed the older woman before she ever reached me because she was
quite attractive. She was dressed in black pants and a black knit shirt. She
had fashionable black glasses and stunning, dangly earrings. Beautifully expressive eyes. A warm smile.
As soon as she sat down by
me, she said: “M’am? Could I tell you something?”
Not going to lie: This
made me a teensy bit nervous. I thought it was charming, however, that she was
calling me, someone clearly quite a bit younger than her, “M’am.” Cracked me up.
“Sure,” I smiled.
“I love your hair,” she
said. “It’s so pretty.”
Whew.
“You just made my day!” I
replied. “And my hairstylist’s! Thank you so much. I truly appreciate your kind
words!”
“I wish mine was that
thick.” (Here’s the truth: Mine is not that thick—it looks thick-ish when
I curl and tease it—the old-fashioned way. Wink. Wink. That's how Big Texas
Hair is accomplished!)
Her hair was lovely. White/blonde,
very healthy looking, and pulled back in a pretty ponytail.
“I love yours, too!” I
said. She smiled, almost shyly, and thanked me.
Now this, in my humble
opinion, is pretty hair. I braided TLC’s the night before she was to have Kit whack it off. (Yes. We were pretending she was eight years old, again.)
The entire incident made
me think about the impact we can have on someone’s day. Week. Life. I normally
feel quite defensive about my hair. I know a few people (My Sweet Hubby for
one…) who often encourage me to “smooth” it down a tidbit. (TLC, on the other hand, likes it big. The bigger, the better!) This sweet, kind,
attractive woman made me feel proud—if only for a few minutes—of the hair I
typically dislike.
Compliments ROCK , right? Let’s all try to give at least one person
per day a compliment, okay?
Hope Y’all have had a Wonderful
Wednesday. Guess what? It’s Friday Eve Eve!!!
smooches and hugs and love…
