Another reason that I don't like going to the doctor

While I'm sure they're all very nice people, I don't like going to the doctor. In order to get me there, I must be afflicted with something that I know, without question, cannot be solved, soothed or healed by anyone else.

Today was one of those days.

Today was also one of those days where I was reminded why I don't like going to the doctor.

Almost two hours (and 3 magazines) after walking into the walk-in clinic, I was finally ushered into an observation room, which, I might add, looked like it could have used a cleaning and likely was home to more bacteria, germs or viruses than I brought with me. The nurse tells me to sit down then closes the door. I'm left to consider the fact that it's called an "observation room" and wonder if someone really is observing to see what this poor patient will do if left for much longer without actually being "observed" by a doctor.

Here's where it got good, though. The doctor walked in and the following conversation commenced:

Doctor: So how are you today?

Stacey: thinking - "that's a stupid question. Would I be at the Dr's office if I was fine?!"
out loud - "fine."

Doctor: And what can I help you with?

Stacey: I have a bit of a rash around my left eye and both eyes are burning.

Doctor: What kind of burning?

Stacey: Like you're really, really tired and they're really, really dry.

Doctor: So you're tired?

Stacey: No, my eyes are burning LIKE they're tired. (thought: oh forget this, let's go back to the obvious) There's a rash around my left eye.

Doctor (looking at my eye now): Yup.

Stacey: And?

Doctor: There's a rash there.

Stacey: Yup.

Doctor: Well, it's not serious.

Stacey (feigning shock): So my eye's not going to fall out?!

Doctor: Nope. (apparently he didn't catch that I wasn't serious!)

Stacey: Well, that's good. What is it?

Doctor: A rash.

Stacey (feeling somewhat exasperated): And? What can I do to make it go away?

Doctor: I'll give you some cream. Only use it till the rash goes away. Not all summer.

Stacey (wondering why he was now talking to me like the idiot): Okey dokey.

And, with prescription in hand, I walk out. Approximately 4 minutes after he'd walked into the observation room. Seriously.

As I was driving home, I thought of this Brian Regan sketch and found a transcription of it so that you, like me, could get a chuckle from it. Here goes nothing...

I actually just recently had to go to the Emergency Room, though and… I had some stomach virus thing. I almost called an ambulance. It’s weird if you’re considering calling an ambulance for yourself. You know? You call ambulances for other people. What are you supposed to say for yourself? Can you come get me? Yeah, I don’t feel so good. Just come on in, I’ll be lying on the floor.
I was looking at the phone thinking, “I don’t know how to do this.” I didn’t know what to do. It was at night, so I drove myself to the Emergency Room. That’s a nice relaxing drive. *whistles a tune* Noooo, after you. Merge, everybody merge. I’m only imploding.
So I pull up at the entrance to the Emergency Room. No valet parking. I mean, if that’s not the biggest oversight in our solar system… if there’s ever a time when you want to go, “can you park this because I need to collapse immediately?” But no, I’m circling around the parking lot trying to find a spot. “Can I park there, I think I’m gonna die?” “I’m dying too.” “OK, go ahead. I’ll go up a couple levels.” Unbelievable. I don’t care if you’re driving yourself or someone else to the Emergency Room, you still want to get out and run in with them. Are you supposed to drop somebody off and go park the car? “OK, you go in! Tell them you’re SHOT! Ask them if they validate!” Unbelievable.
So I finally park, you know. I go in to check in. They ask the most insulting question when you check into a hospital. “What seems to be the problem?” “What seems… ? Well it seems… it seems like everything in all my inside wants to be on my outside. But I’m no doctor.” What kind of condescending question…
So they check me in to my luxurious half room. There’s a curtain down the middle with a mystery patient on the other side. And he’s moaning over there. *Moans* I’m thinking, “man, they’re never going to help me with him moaning like that.” So I gotta out-moan him, you know? *moans louder* *answers with a louder moan* *moans even louder* *screams out a moan* “Quit moaning! We’re all hurting!” The whole floor is like a haunted choir. *moans again* It’s gotta be hell to work in this environment.
So I’m killing time writhing. The nurse finally comes in. “How are you doing tonight?” “I’m on a gurney. Do you have a pain killer or something? This is killing me.” So she goes, “how would you describe your pain?” *pause* “It’s killing me. I don’t know if you remember that part. Ouch.” What, are we playing that pyramid game? “Um. Excruciating. Horrific. Would rather have shards of glass in my eye. How do I convey this to you?” So she asks, “how would you rate your pain?” “Four stars. Two enthusiastic thumbs up!” She goes, “how would you rate it on a scale of one to ten with ten being the worst?” Well, you know saying a low number isn’t going to help you. “Oh, I’m a two… maybe the high one’s. If you could get me a baby aspirin and cut it in half, maybe a Flinstone vitamin and I’ll be out of your hair. You can go tend to all the threes and fours and such, if anyone’s saying such ridiculous numbers.” I couldn’t bring myself ten though, because I had heard that the worst pain a human can endure is getting the femur bone cracked in half. I don’t know if that’s true, but, I thought, if it is, they have exclusive rights to ten. Now I’m thinking, “what was I worried about? Is there like a femur ward in the hospital. They would have heard about me and hobbled into my room.” “Who the hell… had the AUDACITY… to say he was at a level ten?!? You know nothing about ten. Give me a sledgehammer, and let me show you what ten is all about, Mr. Tummy-ache!” How could I possibly… I can’t. So I thought, “I’ll say nine. Then I thought, no, childbirth. I better not try to compete with that.” And then I’m thinking, “you know what must be hell? Giving childbirth when your femur bone’s cracked in half.”
So I said, “I guess I’m an eight.” She goes, “OK, I’ll be back.” I’m like, “aw, I blew it. I ain’t getting nothing with eight.” But she surprised me, she comes in, she told me, “the doctor told me to give you morphine immediately.” So then I’m like, “morphine?? That’s the stuff they gave the guy in Saving Private Ryan just before he died… OK, I’m a four… I’m a zero, I’m a negative eleventeen.” So they gave me morphine. Wow, all I know is about fifteen minutes later, just for the hell of it, I was like, “I’m an eight again! Guess who’s an eight?” When they finally check me out, I’m walking down the hall, I’m going “say eight! Say eight! Say eight! Say eight! Happy eight day! Did you get some eight? Did you get any eight?” What am I throwing? I can’t throw a number… like Johnny Appleseed, “did you get any eight over there?” I don’t understand my own visuals. I’m here throwing numbers around. I’m fine now, I think, I dunno.