One of my 7-year-old stepdaughter’s favorite toys is her well-stocked doctor bag, and a few days ago, Dove instructed me to lay down on the floor so she could operate. She even tucked a pillow beneath my head like a professional while I waited for my operation.
“I wonder what is wrong, doctor,” I said in my best nervous-patient voice.
Dove snapped on her blue gloves as she replied calmly, “Oh, I know what’s wrong.”
“You’re about to die.”
I sat up. “I think I want a different surgeon.”
She immediately leaned over and pushed me back onto my pillow, chiding me with an impatient glance. “There are no other surgeons,” she informed me.
My ominous surgeon checked my ears, my pulse, and my blood pressure with her Barbie cuff. “Oh,” she exclaimed, “you have sparkly blood.”
Well, that’s good, right? I felt a little better about my impending doom, knowing I had glittery blood.
Then she checked my pulse and clicked her tongue in concern. “You have 976 people in your heart,” she said. “They are having a party.”
“How do you know they’re having a party?”
She looked at me like I just asked the stupidest question on the planet. “Because I can hear the music!”
Oh. That makes sense.
Turned out I had people in my ears too. The remedy for everything was giving me a shot filled with soil (why soil? I didn’t ask. I was afraid to).
At my follow-up examination approximately 30 seconds later, Dove was pleased to report that the people were no longer partying in my ears or in my heart, but she cautioned me that they sneak back in at night while I am sleeping. I assured her I would be careful.
I narrowly escaped with my life and won’t be making an appointment Dr. Dove anytime in the near future. But at least now I can brag about having sparkly blood.