A warm blanket over my shoulders could not dissipate the angst for waiting for a doctor that was taking forever to show up. A thousand things in my to-do list, my mind going in circles planning how was I going to make the best out of the little time I had left to address my responsibilities of the day. A nurse with apologetic eyes kept coming in and out of the cold room. Finally, the doctor came in. I needed to get a contrast injected into my knee. The catheter was much larger than I expected but I was as collaborative as possible so that I could leave out of there as soon as possible.

The doctor was tall and thin, the kind of person that makes jokes without any inflection of his face muscles in a effort to keep you wondering if he was throwing a joke or filing a complaint. After the third “joke” I was laughing. We discussed politics, kids’ age differences, country of origin, why the doctor had sent me there among a variety of topics. After he removed the catheter he pressed the site and looked at me with a very serious face, or with his regular face, I should say.

“You have very thin blood,” he stated.

I thought for a second. “Is that good or bad?” I asked.

“It all depends,” he mentioned. “If you go to war and get stabbed, that is not good.”

I consider my options for a second. I have no plans of going to war.

“But if you worry about things like blood clots,” he continued, “Then it is really good. It can go either way.”