Patient vs. Orange: A Needle Saga

 

A Cake, A Crisis, and A Mid-Life Meltdown

Last time, I had a birthday epiphany involving a chocolate cake, an existential crisis, and an elastic waistband emergency.

With that tropical island vision in my head, I made a decision: It was time to take control of my health.

The hard part? Actually doing it.

Pastries, Panic, and One Very Concerned Doctor

Let me tell you, nothing screams “life transformation” quite like sitting in a waiting room flipping through a three-month-old copy of Better Homes & Gardens while someone’s toddler uses your leg as a jungle gym. I wasn’t sure if I should laugh, cry, or hand the kid a granola bar in hopes he’d redirect his energy elsewhere. Either way, there I was, surrounded by a symphony of coughing patients, outdated magazines, and the faint whiff of antiseptic, waiting for my big consultation.

When I finally got called into my doctor’s office, I took a seat across from her desk, a mix of excitement and nerves swirling in my chest. This wasn’t just a casual check-up; this was the appointment! The one where I’d lay out my hopes, fears, and possibly my undying love for pastries.

As soon as she asked, “What brings you in today?” I launched into what can only be described as a verbal avalanche. “Well,” I began, “I want to take control of my health. But also, I want to lose weight? And what if I do lose weight but then gain it all back? And while we’re on the topic, will I ever be able to look at a croissant again without crying?”

She listened patiently, nodding at all the right moments, her calm demeanor a sharp contrast to my spiraling concerns. When I finally paused for breath, she leaned forward and said, “You’re not just losing weight; you’re investing in your future health.”

I nodded sagely, doing my best to look serious and thoughtful, even though in my head I was replaying the eight hours I’d spent the night before Googling “Ozempic and chocolate compatibility.” Spoiler: the results were inconclusive.

Then came the part I’d been building up to. With what I hoped was casual confidence, I said, “So, I’ve been thinking…maybe it’s time to switch from my normal Glucophage prescription to Ozempic?”

Her reaction was immediate. One eyebrow shot up so high it looked like it was auditioning for a spot on her hairline. “Ah, Ozempic,” she said in a tone that suggested she’d heard this exact request approximately 14 times that week. “You know, it’s not a magic wand.”

“I know,” I replied quickly, nodding with what I hoped was an air of maturity and understanding. But in my head, I was thinking, But it’s, like, kind of close, right?

She launched into a detailed explanation of how Ozempic works, the importance of lifestyle changes, and the potential side effects. I nodded along like a diligent student, mentally filing away phrases like “lower appetite” and “regulated blood sugar.” But somewhere around “may cause nausea,” my brain decided it had reached its storage limit.

How I Accidentally Stabbed an Orange (Twice)

And then came the moment of truth: the injection demo.

“Do you have any issues with needles?” she asked, looking up from her stash of practice injectors.

“Not at all!” I lied, channeling the misplaced confidence of someone who had once cried while getting a flu shot.

She handed me a practice injector and guided me through the steps. “Twist off the cap,” she said, demonstrating with practiced ease. I nodded, determined to prove I could handle this. But as soon as she said, “Now pinch the skin,” my brain short-circuited.

Pinch the skin? Which skin? How much? Should I use my thumb and index finger? What if I pinch too hard?

In the chaos of my overthinking, I accidentally pressed the button, releasing the imaginary dose into a defenseless orange sitting on her desk. Startled, I pulled the injector back too quickly and managed to stab the orange again. It now looked like the unfortunate victim of a fruit-related crime scene.

She offered a reassuring smile, the kind that didn’t quite mask the mix of amusement and mild concern in her eyes. “Don’t worry,” she said, carefully removing the battered orange from my reach. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

“Of course,” I replied, pretending to be unfazed, though internally I was already dreading my first real injection.

As I left the office, prescription in hand, I couldn’t help but wonder if she’d added a note to my chart: Patient likely to overthink injections. Provide extra oranges for practice.

Goodbye, Comfort Zone—Hello, Kale and Questionable Life Choices

Walking to my car, I felt a strange mix of optimism and apprehension. This was it—the first real step toward change. Sure, I’d just waged war on an innocent orange, but I’d also learned something important: change doesn’t have to be perfect. Sometimes, it’s messy, awkward, and involves a lot of trial and error.

I’d survived the appointment with only minimal embarrassment (sorry, orange), but the real work hadn’t even started yet. This wasn’t just about taking a medication; it was about embracing an entirely new way of living. That thought was both exciting and terrifying. Exciting because I could finally picture myself as the healthier, happier version of me. Terrifying because, well, kale still existed.

I glanced at the prescription again, as if staring at it long enough would magically transform it into a step-by-step guide to instant success. It didn’t. Instead, it just sat there, folded neatly on my passenger seat, taunting me with the unknown.

When I got home, I placed the prescription on the kitchen counter and stood there, staring at it like it was a contestant on "The Price Is Right". I knew this was the first of many moments where I’d have to make a choice: lean into the discomfort of change or fall back into the safety of what I knew.

I decided to lean in.

Lessons Learned: Progress is Messy (and Occasionally Covered in Frosting).

Come evening, I treated myself to a quiet moment of reflection, armed with a cup of coffee I started to jot down a few goals—not the typical “lose X pounds” kind, but the kind that felt personal and meaningful. Feel confident in my clothes again. Be able to walk up stairs without feeling winded. Dance at my retirement party without worrying about how I look.

By the time I finished, I realized something surprising: I was actually looking forward to this journey. Not just for the results, but for the lessons I’d learn along the way. Because if there was one thing the orange fiasco had taught me, it was this: progress might not always be pretty, but it’s progress nonetheless.

👉 Have you ever had a hilariously awkward doctor’s appointment? Tell me your best one!