When A Doctor’s Appointment Goes Bad.

I hate doctor’s appointments. It doesn’t matter which doctor’s appointment it is – OBGYN, GP, Bone and Joint.  Any doctor that has a lobby, a snarky Nurse’s Assistant and a scale is nerve-racking.  The other day I was waiting to see the doctor.  I was happy, mellow and I felt slim.  My jeans fit well and I could slide my wedding band off and on without feeling like my finger was stuck in one of those bamboo Chinese finger traps.

Nurse Assistant . . . lets just call her, “Maleficent” had to call my name twice (which for some reason annoyed her) because I was busy ripping out recipes from the office magazines.  I stuffed them in my purse and followed her into the examining area. With an arthritic gnarly finger she pointed to the scales.  I jokingly said, “I wish you’d told me I was going to be weighed.  I could have attempted to lose 20-pounds while I was waiting in the lobby.”  Her smile looked more like a crack in the wall of hell.    She said, “Yes, you can lose 20-pound while waiting for the doctor. It’s incredibly easy, said NO ONE!”

I was instructed to take off my shoes.  I had on flip-flops.  I asked for a paper towel to cover the scale surface.  “Why?  Do you have foot fungus?”  At this point my mellow mood dissipated and BBC mood kicked in.  BBC you ask . . . Bitchy Before Coffee mood.  And of course it was at this point she wanted to take my blood pressure.  I asked if we could wait a minute because I was a bit anxious.

She asked, “About WHAT?”  I replied, “Global warming, alien zombie attacks, angry bitches with stethoscopes – my list goes on but I’ll stop at angry bitches with stethoscopes.”

What was left of her hellish smile transformed into a Grinch-like sneer!  She quickly jotted something on my chart and escorted me to the examining room.  I didn’t recognize any of the examination instruments.  However, there were boxes of rubber gloves stacked on the counter – dozens of them.  After disrobing and donning the stylish paper gown, I hopped onto the exam table.  Ten minutes later the doctor knocked on the door – chart in hand.

“So, how have you been feeling?  My Nurse Assistant’s notes suggest you have anger issues – is this correct?”

I denied the anger issue comment and asked him to start the exam.  I didn’t want to spend another second in this torture chamber.  I needed to return to my “happy place” where I was slim and mellow. He instructed me to bend over and take a deep breath.  I’m thinking, whoa, who the hell is this guy?  Where is my female doctor? Why does he want to see my butt!  Maybe he’s a rapist or worse, a-guy-who-plays-a-doctor-on-television rapist!

He assured me it wouldn’t hurt and would be over in a few seconds.  And I assured him it would be a cold day in whatever hell he came from before I’d bend over!

His reaction puzzled me.  He looked offended.  He then stated, “Rest assured I’m totally familiar with transsexuals who have yet to complete their gender transition.  However, I still need to check your prostate.”

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Nurse Assistant, Maleficent snickering.  Her vengeful chart notes stated that I was an aging drag queen going through a sex change.  I quickly gathered my things and stormed out of the office.

During my drive home I thought it wasn’t the drag queen statement or even the bogus sex change information that pissed me off.  It was the “Aging” comment that inflamed my BBC mood!

If this story has a moral I’d say it would be: Stop worrying about the scale, your weight or bitchy nurses with stethoscopes. Trust me you’ll feel better . . . but not before you’ve flattened her tires!