What's Up Doc?
If it weren't for feeling sick and miserable, I'd enjoy doctor's visits more. I mean, think about it: doctors and nurses are a captive audience. They can't run from you. They have to deal with you for a certain amount of time.
They practice medicine on me.
I practice my stand-up routine and heckling.
Seems fair to me. Except that they get paid and I don't. Of course, there are meds involved. Maybe I should consider that getting paid.
Anyway, I recently got to visit a pulmonologist that had never treated me before. My wife and son went with me. Sherry wanted to make sure I ladeled in all the pertinent information and various manifestations of my illness. She likes to add in the ones that bother her as well.
My son rolls with me for the amusement factor. He loves my humor. Kind of offsets Sherry not always being appreciative. We go to the doc, Chandler laughs at my stuff, I feed him McDonalds on the way home. It's a system that works.
So the nurse comes in first and I pester her with dead-pan answers. Before she leaves, she tells me the doc will want me in a chair of my own when he talks to me.
I ask if the doc has a chair fetish, or if he's just concerned about people sitting taller than he does. I tell her I'm not that enthusiastic about being treated by someone with chair insecurity issues. After all, you can't kill a chair with a misdiagnosis.
She assures me Doc knows what he's doing, and she scurries from the room. So I move to the chair and wait. My mind won't stop working despite my wife telling me I need to be good.
Good is for pikers. I had a captive audience after all. Bought and paid for.
Doc comes in. He takes his seat and introduces himself.
I tell him that Nurse has informed me about his chair fetish and insecurities, and I tell him that there are people that can help him with those things. I tell him I'm surprised that he hasn't known about those people himself.
He's polite, but I can tell he's reeling a little. With some help from my wife, Doc understands that I'm just joshing.
Then he comes over and starts putting his hands on me.
"Doc," I say, "you gotta know this is hard for me."
"Am I hurting you?"
"No, but I'm from southeastern Oklahoma and I'm not used to men putting their hands on me unless we're in team uniforms and telling each other 'good game.'"
Doc asks my wife if I'm always like this. She sadly nods. He offers to prescribe something for her.
Then he asks me to pull up my shirt.
I say, "I don't know where you came from, but back home we don't get to this point until after dinner and a movie."
He shakes his head. Despite everything, he continues to talk to me.
I tell him I'm a writer. Of course, he's wary at first. I tell him to look me up on Amazon. He says the x-ray tech will be along for me shortly.
Another nurse comes for me. We go outside. In the hallway, Doc is looking me up on Amazon on his computer.
"Checking me out?" I ask.
"Yeah. There you are. Picture and everything."
Then I tell him docs can get away with wearing the stethoscope and the white coat, but maybe they should look into getting web pages as well. For people that want to check on them.
He was a great guy. I told him next time I would bring hand puppets.