Wednesday, September 17

The Leeches All Died

That's it. Lesson learned. No more going to doctors with rhyming names for this Chiquita. I don't care how many certificates are hanging on your wall, if your name is Dr. Wilhelmina Camina, Regine Vagine, or Dr. Doctor, it all counts as rhyming and you won't be seeing me in your dingy, unsanitary offices with six foot wobbly stacks of Spanish magazines and brochures from the 1960's just waiting to trap the unwitting in their ruins. (It's not as if the doctor is unaware of the piles; she's carefully teetered statues and paintings of Jesus atop each swaying stack, not unlike a game of homeopathic Jenga). The only reason I even went to this office is because they accept my insurance and perform in-house bloodwork, but guess what? Yeah, turns out? Not so much (but perhaps with good reason, after-the-fact googling proved the condition of this particular office's bloodwork apparatus to be rather disconcerting. We're talking the "rust and moths" variety of disconcerting here, people). Why, oh why, can't I seem to find a normal person masquerading as a doctor? One who believes in the finer things in life, like computers and hand washing?

But to be fair, she did check my pulse. And it's been decades since that's happened, so it's probably about time. She slid my highly-technological and super sensitive heart rate monitor watch out of the way, placed her sticky little fingers on my wrist and stood in a pensive state for 60 seconds before declaring, triumphantly, "very good, you healthy". Whew! What a relief! What a load off of my mind! I'm healthy! Good to know that when one of those stacks decides to give way I've got hope of clawing my way out for air!

Ah yes, the co-pay, thank you for reminding me. Here you go, a nice crisp ten dollar bill. Now, about my stomach pains? Hello? Hello?? Dr. Doctor?

So I spent the morning running around from (dingy) office to (disgusting) office only to find out absolutely nothing, you know, besides that I have a pulse (see, mom??) and that there are still plenty o' doctors who believe that cleanliness relates in no way to healthcare.

I can't wait to get home and take a really long, hot hot shower with a very abrasive loofah.

My stomach feels better already.


zandria said...

A doctor's name that rhymes? And this has happened to you more than once? Strange!

Doesn't sound like a very pleasant experience, for sure...

honeykbee said...

Sometimes, Z, it only takes the once.

Anonymous said...'s names must end in berg, stein, man, farb, or witz. None other is acceptable unless trapped within a third world venue.

Anonymous said...

This is what happens when medical schools outsource!

Scottie said...

My doc is a little jewish man named Kenny...and his partner is a little jewish man named Jerry. I love my doc. However, only the one's name ends in "witz"...mine's an "elka." Either way.. neither touches me often enough and usually just tells me what I need to do and write me prescriptions...that's my kind of doc.

Deatoni said...

Glad to hear you have a pulse. Did she grab your crotch and ask you to cough?

Reminds me of that Will Ferrell sketch of the completely incompetent doctor:

"I cant do anything for your baby, but I CAN do the robot. That'll be Five thousand dollars..."