When I was leaving my doctor’s office the other day, she asked me if I had any other concerns I would like to talk about.
“Anything?” I asked.
“Sure,” she replied.
“Well, my husband wants to know if there is a medical reason why I can’t finish anything I start.”
“Any other symptoms?” She asked.
“Occasionally, I get a headache that seems to be brought on by the infirmity.”
“Give me an example,” the good doctor said as she looked at her watch.
“The other day, my husband said he was trying to decide if he liked the vacuum cleaner better sitting next to the fireplace or in the hallway by the door. He asked if I had ever considered making a windchime out of the attachments.”
“I see,” the doctor said. “You think you’ll finish vacuuming later, so you don’t bother to put it away, right?”
“What’s your point?” I inquired.
“Do you even know where you keep your vacuum cleaner in case you someday finish up and you want to put it away?” (Now her hand was on the doorknob.)
“I had no answer.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” she said as she turned the knob.
“Don’t go doc. You have to help me,” I begged. “I have remembered to purchase a birthday card for everyone in the family and several friends. I buy them, but I never manage to send them. I recently had to move them from a drawer to a box. I’m up to 57.”
My doctor stood there in silence. I was beginning to wish I hadn’t asked the fatal question. Suddenly, she began to speak.
“Do you put all of your laundry away, EXCEPT those last two pieces? Have you never once finished the last two swallows of your tea?”
Kip must have called her.
“Yes…that’s exactly right!” I was becoming hopeful. “Is there a cure? What is your method of treatment?”
“Take two Tylenol and lie down until your headache goes away. That’s what I always do…gotta go,” she said.
I threw out all of my cards. I came up with a better idea. Yours is in the mail. Well, it will be as soon as I buy some stamps.