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.
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?