My Cup Runneth Over

Jerry and I went to our new Sevillano doctor recently. He’s just up the street.  He and his nurse/assistant were very kind, although they speak no English. I guess I’ll have to sit in the examining room with Jerry from now on and tell him what to do and when to do it.

“Cough.” (Well, I think he’ll be able to figure that one out.)

Friday, we headed over to the lab, also in easy walking distance. The staff there was also very kind and also spoke no English. Jerry still managed to have a running conversation with the technician who drew his blood. From what I could hear from my seat in the waiting room, neither knew exactly what the other was talking about. But they seemed to enjoy themselves.

As part of our lab work we were handed little plastic-wrapped cups by the receptionist. They had instructions, in Spanish, on the side — accompanied by illustrations (nothing too “graphic”; just of a cup and a test tube, also provided).

Before spending all these years with Jerry, I never would have even talked about this. My family called the “bathroom” the “office”; Jerry’s family described what they did there — in detail. I’ve loosened up over the years (no pun intended). You might all now wish I hadn’t.

Before having our blood drawn, we were to go into the bathroom and… well… Oh, what the hell! We had to pee into the cup.

The instructions showed that once you… peed… into the cup, you were to pour the contents into the test tube and then seal the tube with the provided plastic lid.

My first thought when I entered the bathroom and unwrapped the cup? ‘You’ve got to be kidding! I have to pour it from the wide cup into the narrow test tube?!? This is like cooking!”

A while later, as we headed out of the lab, Jerry turned to me and said very sympathetically, “I almost knocked on the bathroom door to offer to pour for you. I hope you didn’t have any trouble. I worried you were going to feel like you were cooking.”

Now, if that’s not love, what is?

Author: Moving with Mitchell

From Brooklyn, New York; to North Massapequa; back to Brooklyn; Brockport, New York; back to Brooklyn... To Boston, Massachusetts, where I met Jerry... To Marina del Rey, California; Washington, DC; New Haven and Guilford, Connecticut; San Diego, San Francisco, Palm Springs, and Santa Barbara, California; Las Vegas, Nevada; Irvine, California; Sevilla, Spain. And Fuengirola, Málaga..

22 thoughts on “My Cup Runneth Over”

  1. LOL! You two are so cute!!! Some of this sounds familiar…..hey, in large families NOTHING is sacred!! Much to Ron's chagrin, initially.

  2. Today's Spanish lesson: The word to learn is…Proctólogo…lol

    You even enjoy the doctor in Sevilla, don't you. Were they cute?

    saludos,
    raulito

  3. That is love! And your story reminded me of when I had to have my 3-year-old pee into a cup at a doctor's office. That was something. Thankfully no test tube though!

  4. What a sweetie, that Jerry.

    My father was a doctor. If you didn't feel good, for any reason, the first question was always about your stool.

  5. Haha, he knows you so well!

    I remember my bafflement many years ago when an American friend politely asked me if I wanted to visit the bathroom. Huh? What was he insinuating about my personal hygiene! On this side of the world the bathroom is where the bath and shower are. The other equipment has a room of its own!

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