Doctor Visit

A few days ago I dutifully visited the doctor’s office for the yearly physical.  I had as much fun there as you have when you go.  There was the usual extended stay in the waiting room – long enough this time to grow cobwebs on the end of my nose if I hadn’t purposely shifted around a little here and there expressly to avoid them. 

The medical assistant eventually called me back to the examining room.  I had met this person once before.  At that time, she was throwing around some vulgar language.  “She sounds like a mill worker!” danced through my shocked cranium.  Moments later, she began to share her recent history. 

“You ever been in here before?  Don’t think I seen you ever.  I used ta work at [a local paper mill], but they laid off, so I went back ta school, and I been here for ’bout nine months now.  The pay ain’t as good, but whatcha gonna do?”  (I have left out the expletives for the sake of your innocent eyes.)

We discussed the reason for the visit, and I was relieved that she knew and used the correct body part terminologies. 

On this second occasion, she was the soul of apologies for the long delay.  I tried to soothe her.  “Well, I understand.  It’s late in the afternoon, and I know things gradually get behind during the day.” 

“We weren’t behind until a few minutes ago.  We were right on schedule, and then I dunno what happened!” 

I made the mistake of telling her about a doctor’s visit from my past.  I had been left in an examining room in the “everything-off” state for forty-five minutes, and had begun to look for a “press button in case of emergency” apparatus.  The doctor arrived before I had found the button or had restored myself to my preferred public appearance.  He profusely apologized, explaining that the previous patient had needed more attention than anticipated. 

“Ohhh!  Dr. ___________  did that yesterday!  She had a guy waiting for her in the examining room for an HOUR!  And she was just sittin’ in her office doin’ I-don’t-know what.  Probably nuthin’.  I finally knocked on her door and said, ‘That guy’s been sittin’ in there for an hour!  Get your [posterior] in there!'” 

My eyes got wide.  “You said that?  To the doctor?”  She nodded, a satisfied smirk on her lips.  “What did she do?”

“She just looked surprised and smiled.  But she quit foolin’ around and got herself in there!” 

I pondered during my examining room wait why this woman still works for the clinic, and came up with the probable reason: the doctors are all afraid of her.  If anyone ever tried to fire her, she would no doubt tell them, “I dunno what yer problem is, but I ain’t leavin’.  If you wanna go, you can just all clear yerselves outta here, but it ain’t gonna be me that goes.  I got work ta do.” 

Or perhaps the outlandish behavior she continually surprises them with is valuable as a source of entertainment in their otherwise humdrum routine of poking other folks’ anatomy.  It’s possible she retains good rapport with the union boss at her former mill job, and that boss is intimately acquainted with Mafia people who have a thing against doctors.

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