Dr. Sarah

I had a follow-up appointment with a doctor today, because apparently those in the medical profession start to get suspicious when you continue to request refills on your liquid Vicodin over a month after it’s been prescribed to you. Since I don’t have a general physician I went to the drop-in clinic I visit when I’m sick. I didn’t see the doctor who originally diagnosed me with whatever ailment requires liquid Vicodin, I saw a new doctor…and I’m pretty sure it will be the last encounter she and I ever have.

We’ll call her Dr. Sarah. She introduced herself just like that, as I was sitting on the little table in nothing but a loose-fitting gown. She looked way too young and hot to be a doctor. She stood maybe 5’7″ or 5’8″ with long red hair, very thin and tan. She was way too soft-spoken for a doctor. I immediately felt a connection between us. Our eyes met and we barely broke each other’s gaze as we spoke. It was a weird scene in that little room. Staring me down, eyes wide, she asked my symptoms. I told her that I’m a hypochondriac so when I started coughing last week I thought it might be the same affliction that brought me to the doctor in late April/early May. She chuckled and asked if I had a sore throat or headaches or chest pain, I said no but that it seems to come on worst in the mornings when I run or at night before I go to sleep. I admitted that I have not been taking the best care of myself lately. Too much partying, too little sleep. For some reason she responded, “You look like you’re taking great care of yourself.” Uh…Doc? My eyes are up here…

She walked over to me and asked if she could listen to my chest. I made her promise to tell me if it sounded bad. If she didn’t give me good feedback I’d assume the worst. I couldn’t tell who was more nervous. I sat there anticipating bad news, but she looked to be on the verge of collapse. She was practically shaking holding the stethoscope to my chest. After listening to two breaths (is that really enough?) she slowly walked around the examining table and slid her hands (both hands? is that medically necessary?) under my gown. Her left hand gripped my side (I’m not fucking kidding) as her right hand maneuvered the stethoscope. I could feel her breath on the back of my neck. It took every fiber of my being not to freak out or at least start laughing at how funny the scenario was to me. After another half-dozen or so breaths she walked back around the table in front of me. I should have asked her to check my prostate while she was standing behind me.

She said she heard nothing out of the ordinary. My chest sounded healthy. So the big question came, did I want more cough syrup or did I want to try something else. And here I thought she was fucking with me. I had been told to schedule an appointment specifically because I was requesting the cough syrup, so I didn’t want to just start saying “The sizzurp! The sizzurp!” I tried to make a case that I could go either way, that it seemed to be the worst at mornings and nights, so whatever she thought would help at those two times I would agree to. My hope was that she would hear “nighttime” and suggest the syrup because of its sedative qualities. Instead she opted for some pill I’ve never heard of that isn’t a narcotic so oh well. I had a good run. I got two refills on my Vicodin when it wasn’t medically necessary. I said that sounded good to me. Doctor Sarah told me I could dress and wait outside to be discharged. I hopped off the table and lunged for my clothes. I said thank you as she was exiting the room, my gown already half off. She turned around to say “You’re welcome,” but when she saw I was already half-undressed she “Oops!”‘d, quickly turned back around, and stumbled through the curtain into the waiting area. Awkward!

I sighed. The tension had left the room. I thought I was done and that I could go home free but I had to have one more interaction with Dr. Sarah. As I was being discharged I received instructions from the old lady receptionist near the exit. She delivered her usually speech to me as Dr. Sarah stood next to me and signed off on the prescriptions.

The old lady began to say, “We’re going to go ahead and bill your Insurance and then –” I cut her off.

“They’re going to send me a letter next month and tell me this isn’t covered by my insurance.” She laughed. Doctor Sarah laughed. The receptionist studied my face.

“Were you just here a few weeks ago?”

“Yeah. Do you remember me being witty?”

“You’re funny,” Dr. Sarah chimed in. I looked at her, confused.

“No, I actually remember you’re face.” The old lady said. “Because you’re very cute.” At that moment Dr. Sarah looked up from signing off on my prescriptions and our eyes met again. She smiled. I looked back to the old lady. “Isn’t he cute?” The old lady asked Dr. Sarah. Was this really fucking happening?

“He is handsome,” she said.

I smiled and said ‘Thank You”…but what the fuck? Was I supposed to ask Dr. Sarah for her phone number or something? I mean…she’s my doctor! Should she even be my doctor? Can I take seriously the medical opinion of a girl who sized me up and complimented my physique before telling me that I’m both funny and handsome? How the hell do I know she even diagnosed me properly. She was practically shaking while listening to my chest. And unless you’re examining a toddler what’s the significance of grabbing your patient by the waist and holding him while you listen to his chest? Did she think I was going to try to stand up and walk away in the middle of my examination? Would she have laughed if I made a “Let’s play Doctor” joke? Could she please take me back to the little room and milk my prostate? All these thoughts passed through my head in the moments following my “Thank you.”

Dr. Sarah handed me my prescriptions (no, the i’s were not dotted with hearts!) and told me to feel better soon. The old lady receptionist continued her speech about contacting the insurance company and told me to follow up with my doctor in two weeks if nothing changed. But Dr. Sarah is my doctor. I don’t think I can follow up with her. There’s too much tension for me to put myself through that. Hopefully I’ll just feel better and that’ll be the end of that. If my symptoms persist…I have to find a new doctor, right?

Domo Genesis – Boss’ Life