A man takes his wife to the doctor for an annual checkup. When the doctor calls the woman in, she turns to her husband and says, "Let's go Harold." The husband dutifully follows her into the

A man takes his wife to the doctor for an annual checkup. When the doctor calls the woman in, she turns to her husband and says, "Let's go Harold." The husband dutifully follows her into the examination room, which, to his surprise, is completely devoid of chairs. It's just a sterile room with an examination table, a scary-looking machine with blinking lights, and a rather stern-faced nurse hovering near a drawer labeled "Pointy Objects."

The doctor, a no-nonsense woman with a clipboard and an air of quiet authority, raises an eyebrow. "Mr. Peterson," she says, her voice calm but firm, "this is a private annual checkup for your wife. You're welcome to wait in the reception area."

The wife, Mildred, puts a hand on Harold's arm. "Oh no, Doctor," she chirps, with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Harold always comes with me for my checkups. He's my emotional support human. Plus, he's very good at holding my hand. And sometimes, my breath."

Harold nods enthusiastically, though he's starting to feel a cold dread creep up his spine. He remembers last year's checkup, where he nearly fainted during a discussion about blood pressure.

The doctor, clearly accustomed to such spousal attachments, sighs. "Very well," she concedes, gesturing vaguely towards a small, wobbly stool in the corner. "Just try to remain quiet and refrain from offering any medical opinions, Harold. And definitely no fainting."

Harold squeezes onto the stool, trying to make himself as small as possible. The examination begins. Mildred is a trooper, answering questions about her diet, exercise, and general well-being. Harold, meanwhile, is nervously watching the blinking lights on the machine and trying to decipher the cryptic labels on the various medical instruments. He silently prays that none of them involve anything sharp or invasive.

Then comes the moment of truth. The doctor instructs Mildred to lie down on the examination table. Harold braces himself, gripping his knees.

"Alright, Mildred," the doctor says, "just relax. Now, I'm going to need you to take a deep breath and hold it."

Mildred complies. Harold, being the dutiful emotional support human, instinctively takes a deep breath and holds his own.

The doctor continues with her examination, occasionally humming softly. Harold's face is starting to turn a faint shade of purple. His eyes are bulging. He can feel his lungs screaming for air. He tries to subtly release some, but his wife's unwavering stare from the examination table tells him he better not.

A full minute passes. Then another. Harold is now bright red, tears pricking his eyes. He feels like his head might explode. He starts to make a faint, strangled wheezing noise.

Finally, the doctor finishes. "Alright, Mildred, you can breathe now."

Mildred exhales calmly. Harold, however, lets out a gasp that sounds like a deflating balloon, followed by a series of uncontrolled, loud gulps of air. He nearly topples off the stool, clutching his chest.

The doctor turns to him, a faint smirk on her face. "Everything alright, Harold?"

Harold, still panting, manages to croak, "Yes, Doctor! Just… very… supportive! But next year, Mildred, I think I'll wait in the car. Or maybe just send my blood pressure cuff in my place. It handles stress much better than I do!"