Herb Benham: Someone's telling tall tales about his height
| Friday, Jul 10 2009 03:29 PM
Last Updated Friday, Jul 10 2009 03:29 PM
A couple weeks ago, I went to the doctor. This is not breaking news. People go to the doctor all the time and don't feel as if they have to announce it in the newspaper.
This was a new doctor because mine had retired. Doctors, like barbers, aren't supposed to retire. They are supposed to politely die a week or so after their patients or customers do and then meet them in the Great Beyond dressed in a white smock.
I hadn't been feeling sick, aside from the lingering distress of falling off my bike and sliding across the asphalt like an aging break dancer. However, it seemed sensible to schedule an appointment in order to "get started" -- parlance for meet the new doctor, get a checkup and then order as many tests as the insurance will cover.
Dr. Dave's office is reassuringly close to Memorial Hospital and closer still to the new ER. Should my heart stop beating during the exam I could almost crawl to the ER before Sue decided between a homey pine coffin and a refrigerator box from Urner's.
I sensed that I may have been older than Dr. Dave. That happens more frequently these days. It's not just a matter of older, but how much older. Staying in the same decade is a victory.
I enjoy having my blood pressure taken. I like the gentle pressure on my arm as they pump up the sleeve. I am proud when my blood pressure falls in the acceptable range.
I don't have a problem with being weighed either. When it's higher than expected, I tell myself it's muscle. Beer muscle, chocolate muscle, bread muscle. I'm a very muscular guy.
"I'd like to see how tall you are," said the nurse.
No need to do that, sugar. I'm 5 foot 111/2 inches tall. Almost 6 feet. We might as well just call it 6 feet. As muscular as I've become, I may have grown too.
"You're five-ten and a quarter," she announced, loud enough that residents in the mobile home park down the street could hear.
I beg your pardon. Five foot 10? I don't think so. Obviously, I was slouching. Muscular guys do that sometimes.
I'll show you. That was my relaxed measuring pose. I just didn't want to make you and your little friends feel any smaller than you already are.
Now, I'm mad. When I'm mad, I can have a growth spurt that will make the giant in Jack and the Beanstalk look like ground cover.
I stood tall, nearly separating myself from my socks. I now towered over everybody in the office. I was taller than the General Sherman tree.
"Same measurement," she said, with enough relish to garnish a hot dog. "I think you're probably closer to five-ten than five-ten and a quarter."
Five-ten? I used to pity guys who were 5'10." It was not out of the question for me to rest a bowl of mixed nuts on their heads.
Do you know who you are talking to here? Some of my friends call me Big Guy and that's not something you call somebody who is riding the fifth race at Pimlico.
"You should have thought about drinking your milk," the nurse said.
Milk? I haven't drunk milk in 30 years. The last time I drank milk, I was probably closer to 6'9."
I have had some chocolate milk over the years. Does that count?
I had my examination. My heartbeat is irregular and my blood pressure abnormally low. I'll get over those things. It's the 5'10" that may be terminal.
***
Her name is Lucille Bell and did I get spirited call from her. Lucille (I hadn't mentioned her name) was the 901/2 year-old woman mentioned in Friday's column. She was diagnosed last October with non-Hodgkin's lymphoma and now is in remission and living back on her own. She called to tell me both her name and that she had visited seven continents and 67 countries.
