CROSSING THE THRESHOLD

         "On a scale of one to ten, where do you rate your threshold for pain?" the questionnaire asked. Is someone kidding me? Memory trips back and I want to say "I give it an 85, Dick. I like the beat and it is easy to dance to." I don't think that is the answer they want. I suspect I forgot to answer it, for when I turned the clipboard in at the desk, waited a few minutes in the waiting room and then accompanied a nurse into an office, she asked the same question again.

         Come to think of it, she rephrased many of the questions that were on the papers I filled out, but all of these were non-judgmental in nature, about sicknesses of past or present. I was starting to wonder why I wasted my time writing when she came to the threshold question again. I wanted to ask if she had a claw hammer in her purse. If so, the two of us could have done some empirical research and made an accurate measure of my pain threshold simply by hitting various body parts and seeing how I reacted.

         Since she didn't bring her tools, we had to talk in relative terms, my root canal being a ten, a pulled hamstring an eight and passing a gall stone a 2.86 on the scale. It was too early in the morning to make intellectual judgments. My appointment was at 7:45 and by now it was no more than 8:30. Had I been sharper I might have placed the death of Buddy into the formula.

         I didn't know him personally, but the death of any pet registers on my scale, and when it is announced on the evening news I share in it with others. My pain threshold rating jumps off the top of the scale when I read comments about it on the Internet. "It hasn't been a good year for Bill Clinton. Not only is his legacy in shambles, but now his dog is dead after having been left home alone in Chappaqua, N.Y." Thus spoke a Mr. Taranto at OpinionJournal.com.

         The words through 'shambles' can be debated until we are blue in the face, but now our opinion maker finds a new indictment for that future time when the Clintons are in the dock and the prosecutor is throwing the book at them. Because the dog was left alone, he died in an accident. Would I be up on the same charges for leaving Farfel this morning while the nurse and I discussed gradations of pain? Last week I was gone from nine until three. Undoubtedly I deserve to be Tarantoed too.

         There is a difference though. As far as I know, Mr. Taranto does not hate me; he does not even know me. I certainly don't want to know him. Oh, he will deny that he is a hater, but when he responds to the ex-President's statement that the Clintons were deeply saddened by Buddy's death by replying, "Deeply saddened," eh? Hmm, where have we heard that before?' he makes my point.

         There are times I am sorry I ever wrote a piece on pundits a year ago "LANGUAGE MARCHES ON" . I gave the definition 'a learned teacher or critic, especially in India, a Brahman versed in Hindu science, laws and religion'. We will have to add to it the phrase 'an insensitive clod for whom anything is game for comment.'

         My nurse brought me back to reality by reminding me that we were talking about physical pain. She did this as she strapped the blood pressure reader on my arm and began pumping away. Wasn't quite fair to take a reading with me on my hobby horse, but she did and then escorted me down the hall to another room where another person came in and went over my answers. I guess that's what she did because, come to think of it, I don't remember her doing anything else except to tell me that the next specter would draw some blood.

         That person, after much exploration and complaint about her equipment, put my arm on the soft elevated examining chair. She extracted the required tube, and then some, for when she finished, there was blood all over the chair under my arm. Next, in putting the bandage on me, she covered every hair she could find on my arm, so that taking it off will surely rate a nine on the pain thermometer. She did give me one piece of good news. I could go home!

         When I arrived at the homestead, I gave my dog an extra hug and asked forgiveness for neglecting her. She licked my face but was more interested in sitting outside in the cold. I told her to watch for Mr. Taranto, give him a bite, and filled her water bowl. Later we took a nap together. It was when I woke up I noticed a message on the answer machine. The doctor's office had called. The blood test had been faulty. I would have to go back on Monday morning and have my arm mauled again.

         Such is life. Now you will excuse me, I have to find a dog sitter so that I can become a dweller on the threshold.