God damn, it's been a while! I was up in the mountains last week trying to force seconds to stay still. It's good to be back. The few readers of this site were legitimately concerned. They asked me to post something, perhaps about Valentine's Day, but I'll do no such thing. Valentine's Day is a day for contented lovers to celebrate their love and adoration for one another. It's a day for those who are jilted and alone to scorn and ridicule those who have what it is they lack. Oh, and chocolate too. Lots and lots of chocolate. And sex. I like all of these things.
I've been having bad luck with doctors lately. My primary care physician, whom I've been seeing since moving to San Francisco, acted so untoward toward me that I've sought someone new. His unique brand of cold condescension was borderline admirable. There should be a word used to describe the process of divorcing yourself from your doctor. Maybe he's jilted right now, searching for his heart with an icy stethoscope. Today isn't a story about him though; I'll save that for another time. Today is about the spinal specialist he'd referred me to. Why I chose to see a specialist he recommended is beyond me.
I arrived at the doctor's office this morning on time. As they requested, I had filled out all of the pages which were provided in the gargantuan envelope full of patient paperwork. I handed it over, relinquished my insurance card, and had a seat. Within minutes I was escorted by a kindly gentlemen named Michael to a room where I was given a blanket, a hospital gown and a cucumber. I was told to put the gown on. The blanket was there if I got cold. The cucumber, I'm still confused about. Michael informed me the doctor would see me shortly, and he promptly scrammed. After a brief wait, Kristen, the PA, arrived. Seeing as my last name is Italian, she took it upon herself to add the word paisano to the end of every sentence, leaving off the o of course. It shocked me how quickly this transitioned from endearing and cute to creepy. "Okay paisan," she said, "let's have you take a walk over to get an x-ray. You'll walk out of here, make a left, and hand these papers in to the women's center; they'll take care of you, paisan." The women's center? It was a question I didn't have to ask - my face said it for me. "Oh, don't worry about that, paisan, the name is misleading." It's sexist, is what it is. Unless they're doing mammograms and pap smears, neither of which particularly interest me - unless I'm doing the papping - the center sounds pretty squarely intended for females. But I didn't say any of this to her, I just passively complied and walked myself down to the women's center in my billowy blue gown and socks.
The room was packed full of women. Rotten, post-middle-aged women who all stank of menopause. Some were mustached, some were crust-assed, but all of them were disgruntled, ugly, and indignant. One woman made so artful a scene at the counter I was almost brought to tears. She exclaimed that she simply couldn't wait in line like everyone else for her x-ray; that she had things to do; that the doctor told her this would be quick; that they clearly didn't talk to her doctor, because if they did they'd just get her in next; that she wanted to speak to someone; that she wanted that someone to call her doctor. Eventually she took a seat, but not until after she squeezed every last colorful drop of privileged entitlement from her fatuously thistled brush. After an eternity I had my x-ray. As I was escorted out, back to the spine center, I passed the mammography room. Go figure.
Once again I met my old friend Michael and he helped me back to the examination room. Biting with a loud snap into a cucumber, he said, "the doctor will see you shortly," and then Michael was gone. Once more I waited. I heard the low boom of a man's voice vibrate the hollow wood of the door. Then, like an Asian Kramer from Seinfeld, Dr. H walked in and threw himself onto the chair beside me. His body collapsed, slouched, and finally slid like a sheet of paper down the chair as he extended his hand. There was something funny about him; in a comical way, sure, but also in a wry way. He looked like he should be on TV; The Simpsons. "Stand up and look at the ceiling," he said. So I did. "Look at the floor." I did. "Bend left." I did. "Bend right." I did. "Twist." I did. Each time I fought the urge to yell: you didn't say Simon says. He asked me why I was here today. The implication was that because I could perform these very mundane human motor functions that I was free from debility. I told him that though I can move in the ways I was instructed, it is not without pain and loss of range of motion that I'm able to do so. Mainly, I was there to get an accurate appraisal on my outlook at recovery - it's been 7 months. Instead of reviewing the x-ray with me and giving me some advice on what my next steps should be, he began waging a sophisticated war of sophistries. He started speaking in riddles and parables, drowning me in an avalanche of non-sequiturs;
- What did you study in school?
- Do you know who Newton is? Do you know what happened under the apple tree?
- Did you know that the best lawyer in the country was illiterate?
- Do you know about the uncertainty principle? Quarks?
- What do you know about string theory?
- You know how Paypal came to existence?
- Do you know how lucky you are you weren't paralyzed when you fell? I wonder what God's plan is for you.
I kid you not. These are phrases verbatim from his lips. Things got stranger after he crossed the God threshold:
- How many commandments did Moses give you?
None, I told him. I was trying to subtlety let him know I was a non-believer. I was also subtlety trying to nudge him back toward medical reasoning and professionalism, instead of the specious religious waters he was walking on top of, but he parted my attempts like the Red Sea. "I think there's a purpose for you; God didn't take away your ability to walk. The lesson is: don't climb trees anymore and you'll be fine." Holy shit. I was in over my head here. The PA was putting on a wimple and spritzing the room with holy water. Fuck. I'd wandered straight into a Catholic hospital. Too late to correct my error, I had to endure banal platitudes and pointless parables about how my weakness is truly a strength. Finally, after all this time, an answer for that dreaded interview question! He told me a story about a mighty warrior who suffered a thorn in his side - which he then likened to a thorn in my spine, I kid you not - and asked me to find ways to adjust my lifestyle in such a way that this weakness can be seen for the strength that it truly is. They were so far gone down the pulpit hole that I just nodded and smiled and prayed to Satan for salvation. There could be no reasoning with them, I was sure of it. The three of us in harmony sang the Memorial Acclamation and then we fed each other the eucharist.
No.
Actually, I slapped the blithering quack in the face, ripped off my paisan's wimple, and stomped on it. I retrieved the cucumber that I'd stashed away earlier and cracked it in two. I stuffed one half into his mouth and the other into hers, and then I asked them to figure out with their nose where I'd hidden the pickle. I gave them a hint - not in Gomorrah.
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