The doctor’s office is decorated in a style that is more reminiscent of the sitcom Newhart. The wood trim is oak, highlighted with brass chrome. The wallpaper is a narrow stripe pattern that alternates between midnight blue, brick red, and kelly green. The seating is a beige sectional sofa that is low to the floor and impossible to sit upright in. The entire waiting room has an overall feel that suggests that a mounted moose head wouldn’t be out of place hanging over the receptionist’s desk.
The receptionist herself is an ex-Marine. I know this because the larger-than-life SUV that’s always in the parking lot has at least three lady Marine bumper stickers and, when you meet her, it’s pretty obvious that the car is hers. She has a bedside manner that matches. “I have a 9:30 appointmentdon’tshootmeSIRYESSIR!” is the way I usually want to check in.
As has been the case on my last three visits to this doctor, I am kept waiting for half an hour past my appointment time. The entire rationale of my choosing the earliest possible appointment in the morning is so that this won’t happen, and I am rather unhappy about it. I suppose there’s no reason that they need to be running around urgently, but I always find the extremely relaxed staff to be annoying. Couldn’t you be taking me back and letting me wait in the exam room? I want to ask.
The upside of this tactic is that, once I’m in the exam room, the doctor always comes in immediately. I suppose I should be happy about that: the magazine selection is better in the waiting room.
The doctor has no sense of humor. Never has. I’ve stopped trying. He opens my file and starts going over my case. “Well, let’s see,” he says. “You had surgery five months ago now.”
“Yup.”
“Any discomfort?”
“Well, no, but the reason I’m here…”
“Let’s take a look.”
In a scene that would be funny were this a sitcom (or hot were this gay porn … and involving two other people), I am told to drop trou and assume the position on a table that would, it seems, be a welcome accessory in certain clubs that I’ve only ever heard about because of its ability to pretty much turn me on my head (while holding on for dear life).
I hear the snap of latex, all the while protesting, “The last time I was here, you said that I was already completely healed so I dunno if you really need toYARGHcould you warn me before you do thatGAHHfor god’s sake do you keep that metal scope in the freezer between uses??”
“There’s a bathroom through there if you’d like to wipe the lubricant off your backside,” he says, snapping off the latex and turning on the sink with his elbow. I do so, realizing that I must have the same look on my face that the dog has whenever the vet brings her back to the exam room after going to “collect a sample.” I kind of feel dirty and violated.
“So,” he says, “we still have some minor irritation to contend with.”
“Yes,” I say. “That’s why I’m here — last time we tried a new prescription.”
“Yes, I see,” he says, finding the line item in my file. “And how did that work for you?”
“It didn’t.”
He looks at me. “You didn’t fill the prescription?”
“I did. I think it made the problem worse. It certainly didn’t make it better.”
“Well,” he says, and hems and haws for a while. “There’s another one we could try.”
Yay.
“We’ve had some success with it. There’s a catch, though.”
“A … catch.”
“Well, some patients have reported a burning sensation the first time they apply the compound.”
“Burning,” I say.
“In some cases, the patients have reported that it burns so badly that they have to wash it off immediately. I’ve had a couple who’ve refused to use it after that.”
Blink blink.
“But let’s give this a try.”
“You know, the irritation is kind of minor…”
“Let’s schedule you in for three months from now and see how you’re doing.”
And then I’m back out on the street, $30 lighter (the Marine receptionist having given me a nasty look for not having a ten dollar bill on me), with a prescription in my hand for a compound that apparently causes a massive burning sensation.
I think my doctor must have been at Evil Medical School with Dougie. :sigh:
Anyway. I’m also in this weird musical rut — this happens with me, where I acquire or two CDs and wind up listening to them over and over and over and over and over again to the exclusion of just about everything else. At the moment, my iPod is probably tired of playing Eros Ramazzotti’s album 
