I’ve never had much luck with doctors…starting with the guy who supposedly delivered me. He skipped off to the racetrack during my crowning moment, and later in the day sporting a winner circle smile, congratulated my mom on her healthy baby boy. Maybe I was switched at birth. God knows that would explain a lot of things.
Then in college I decided it was time to drop my pediatric doc and step up to the big girl plate. I made an appointment with a young physician who had a practice close to campus. I had few expectations…just a metal table, a fresh paper gown, and cold steel instruments inserted like they had plans to hook and hang me in a meat locker.
As I arrived at his office I gave myself a lecture. “You are such a wimp! For Godsakes, how bad can it be? A little poke and go, right?” But I soon learned otherwise.
I checked in at the front desk where an anxious looking receptionist asked me my name three times. I considered giving her a slightly different variation with each response, but it was painfully obvious this chick was beyond stressed. Upon completing the new patient paperwork the same overwhelmed gal instructed me to make my way to room number one, and await the doctor who would be in shortly.
I suppose this would have been a good time to question the situation since I’d always been accompanied to an examining room by a nurse, but I didn’t see one of those anywhere on the premises. Instead I marched myself down to room number one…a sterile little space with no spot to sit down except for the large and looming examination table, stainless steel stirrups glistening in the late afternoon light.
I removed my clothes, placing them in a nice neat pile. Then I slipped on my paper gown and hopped on to the table. The stiff sanitary lining crackled beneath me as I fidgeted with my gaping smock. I diverted my attention from the cold and callous stirrups with an old Reader’s Digest and a Family Circle found in a lonely magazine rack. Finishing both in record time I decided to entertain myself by studying the breast exam chart on the wall. With my boobs laying flat as doilies in a retirement home it did not take long to determine that there were no unusual bumps.
Not knowing how else to pass the time, I swung my legs for awhile…tried on the stirrups, stared at the fish decals on the ceiling, then I hopped down and scoured the doctor’s drawers for more reading material. Nothing too exciting besides syringes in plastic wrap, some gauze and tubing…so I jumped back up on my crinkled sanitary throne and continued waiting…for a hell of a long time.
Suddenly, without warning the lights went out and I found myself in total darkness. I fumbled off the table and blindly inched my way to the door. When I opened it and my eyes became accustomed to the light, I noticed what I could only assume was the doctor, a handsome man around thirty, removing his white coat and hanging it in a closet outside my room.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I think you forgot something.”
The startled young doctor turned abruptly. It was quite obvious that he had no idea who I was and why I was in his office.
“OMG! How long have you been here?” He asked.
“Long enough to read your two pathetic magazines cover to cover, give myself a routine breast exam, and miss a happy hour.”
“This has never happened before.” He said, putting his arms back into the sleeves of his jacket.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m going to give you the exam,” he said.
“Oh, no you’re not. You had your chance.” And with that, I scurried back into the now lit exam room, threw on my clothes, and bolted.
The next day I received a bouquet of roses from the doctor with a little note explaining how sorry he was for my inconvenience. Apparently his receptionist had quit and he had to hire a manic temp for the day.
Now fast forward to my last physical. Another new doctor…a woman who came highly recommended in the medical field.
I was surprised when shortly after I got settled in the examining room there was a brisk knock and my new gyno entered. Her hand was frigid as she shook my clammy one, and then immediately went to the sink to scrub. The next thing I knew she had pushed her chair real close to mine, dropped her glasses on the bridge of her nose, and stared at my face as if inspecting a rough diamond.
“Are you a smoker?” She asked, rubbing hard on my cheekbone.
“No.” I said, pushing back slightly.
“Really? I’m a doctor, this is strictly confidential.” She lifted my medical folder, pen poised to scribble my confessions.
“No,” I said, “I mean, I tried it once when I was 16, but I hated the taste and never did it again.”
“Hmmm,” she said, looking puzzled, while pressing under my eyes and upper lip with more gusto.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Well, I hope you’re not offended, but you have a lot of wrinkles around your mouth and eyes…LIKE smokers.”
I must admit, I didn’t see that one coming….and the worst part of all was this woman’s relentless attack on my face. She was hell bent on my understanding the severity of my skin. She wouldn’t get off of it! Sighting examples like Keith Richards, and a mulched coat Chinese Shar-Pei to drive home HER porcelain-faced point.
Something you might not know about me, but when I feel attacked I tend to be sarcastic, but not this time. I think I whimpered…like a runt of the litter puppy on the first night away from its’ bitch.
Weather beaten like a well-worn gutter, I blubbered something about that wonderful old Mark Twain line… “Wrinkles should merely indicate where smiles have been.” I wanted her to see that SOME people just might find a well-lived, fun loving life hiding under my Leatheroid exterior.
“Of course it’s up to you, but you don’t want to look like you’ve been in hysterics for 55 years.” And with that, she took out her prescription pad and wrote me an Rx for Renova, a cream which costs a bloody fortune and of course not covered by insurance. (Can you spell kickback?)
I don’t know about you, but I’m not working with the medical profession. Yeah, I’m sure I’ll change my tune when I’m at death’s door, but in the meantime, I think I’ll pull my ego up off the linoleum, find a rip-roaring happy hour, and work on my collection of laugh lines.
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