The tale of ‘What’s Up Doc?’
The road to good health is fraught with danger and excitement … and questionable wardrobe decisions.
These days, every doctor’s visit begins with an agonizing memory test: list every medication you take and every medical procedure you have endured since the dawn of time. You would think artificial intelligence, or at least a nurse with a clipboard, might preserve the list from my last visit. But no! The production must begin from scratch. After several minutes of rummaging through the dusty archives of my mind, I completed the questionnaire and returned the tablet to the receptionist with all the triumph of a diva finishing her eleven-o’clock encore.
At last, I was escorted into the inner sanctum and invited to step onto the scale. Anticipating this merciless tribunal, I surrendered my purse and even removed my eyeglasses, because every fraction of an ounce counts when one’s dignity is on trial. The nurse insisted she was not judging me, but I could feel a silent “tsk, tsk” reviewing every dietary choice I had ever made, accompanied by an imaginary eye roll grand enough to be seen from the balcony. From that moment onward, I avoided eye contact. The scale had spoken, the jury had retired, and I was not staying for the reviews.
There I was, alone in the doctor’s examination room, awaiting my yearly physical like the glamorous heroine of a very low-budget medical drama. The nurse instructed me to remove my rainbow caftan, a garment I had chosen especially for the occasion because it offered convenient access to my “working parts” while still delivering a grand entrance. She then informed me that even my 4X granny bloomers, lovingly adorned with hand-painted periwinkles, had to go. In their place, I was to wear one of those dreadful hospital gowns that opens in the back, a design clearly created by someone with a grudge against dignity. Then, with the timing of a seasoned stage villain, she swept out of the room.
And so, I sat, with my extravagantly ample buttockus maximus exposed to the elements and, potentially, the entire medical establishment. I felt vulnerable, unprotected, and one spotlight away from mounting a pole at an unsavory strip club. Oh, the humiliation! At least the beehive wig stayed on; some standards must survive.
While I waited for the doctor, my only distraction was a pair of “inspirational” medical posters displayed beside the spectacularly uncomfortable exam table. The first offered a graphic portrait of explosive diarrhea, complete with an exhaustive list of causes and consequences for an unrestrained toxic mudslide. The second, by default the evening’s more tasteful production, explored the triggers and hazards of projectile vomiting. Subtle? No. Educational? Allegedly. Memorable? Like sequins under a spotlight.
At last, the doctor entered, attempted some polite chitchat about a sports team I had never heard of, and began the examination. When the proceedings moved southward, he had to navigate the grand circumference of my abundant geography like Ferdinand Magellan with a stethoscope, a compass, and very limited funding. It was less a routine physical than an expedition, and I half expected him to plant a tiny flag.
To avoid awkwardness, I sent my mind directly to its ultimate happy place: CHUCK-A-RAMA, where the rolls are warm, and judgment is served only at the carving station. After listening to my heart and lungs, the doctor announced, with just enough concern to launch a three-act melodrama, that he wanted to order some tests. He told me to wait for a nurse and swept from the room, leaving me alone with one terrifying question: What had he seen or heard? Was this merely routine, or was I about to deliver my final curtain call before lunch?
After I had worked myself into a full panic, another nurse entered the room and, mercy, what an entrance. He was so polished and photogenic that every mother on the planet would have been proud to have extruded him from her vajayjay. My pulse promptly launched into a tap routine. He explained that he needed to draw blood, which was unfortunate because I regard every needle that is not attached to a sewing project as a personal betrayal. As he approached with the syringe, I warned him that my bravery had strict limits and asked him to warn me before the poke. I turned away, fixed my gaze on the diarrhea poster, and pretended it was a fascinating museum exhibit. Suddenly he announced, “All in,” and began drawing blood. I had not felt a thing. Perhaps his technique was flawless, perhaps I was distracted by the spectacle, or perhaps my nerves had simply closed for intermission.
Then I glanced at the table and discovered an entire chorus line of test tubes waiting for their cue. I asked how many he intended to fill. “An even dozen,” he replied. An even dozen! At that rate, I feared my tank would run dry before the grand finale. By vial five, I felt slightly light-headed; by vial eleven, the room had acquired all the sparkle and spin of a bargain-basement disco ball. When the last tube was filled, he helped me into a chair and recommended that, once dressed, I visit Chuck-A-Rama to replenish my reserves. Now that is bedside manner with a buffet strategy. What a nice boy!
As always, this medical extravaganza leaves us with several eternal questions:
1. Should posters about rapid-release chocolate typhoons also explain how to clean the receiving toilet after a full-force tushy torrent?
2. Could scented glitter disguise the aftermath of a full-scale poopocalypse, or would it merely make the disaster look festive?
3. Should there be an award for the distance, aim, and dramatic flair of a stomach cannon performing an emergency food recall—also known as a technicolor yawn?
4. When twelve vials of blood are requested, should the patient receive a loyalty card and a complimentary dinner roll?
These and other important questions will be answered in future chapters of: The Perils of Petunia Pap-Smear
