The box on the clipboard

The doctor didn't fall off your calendar because you got busy. You were dodging one little box on a clipboard. Do you smoke? You knew the pause that followed your answer. You knew the advice you'd nod at and ignore. So the appointment slid, and slid again. Not knowing started to feel safer than knowing.

That little box was the whole problem. The dread was never about the needle. It was about the question. The cigarette kept you out of that waiting room so nobody would check its work. Now your answer is two proud words. Not anymore. Everything else is a cuff on your arm and some small talk. Ordinary, and yours again.

Walk in with your head up. Whatever they check, you're facing it with the biggest change already made. If anything turns up, you're catching it now instead of later, with your habits on your side. Take a prayer in with you. Whatever they find, Lord, stand in the room with me. You've got nothing left to hide in there.

Book it today, while the resolve is warm. Ask for the basics and let them draw the blood. The call takes a few minutes, less time than the old errands used to eat. Then comes the clipboard, and that pen on its little chain. This time the pen doesn't even slow down.