Doctor, doctor!

The medical provider I visited today is only a few blocks from my apartment, meaning that by the time I arrived, I was hot, sweaty, and a heart-attack risk. The attending nurse was bubbly, and spend almost ten minutes talking about drinking coffee. She also mentioned her family size had doubled since her husband returned from Iraq, and won a custody battle with his ex-wife. She talked about my shoes, and how much her son would like wearing them during bible study with his friends. She divulged a lot of information, and didn't once ask about my colon.

Being new, I was subjected to a battery of tests. Normally I have to urinate every fifteen minutes, but for some reason find is difficult when I'm standing in a brightly-lit bathroom the size of a football field, huddled over a tiny plastic cup while I can hear nearby office assistants talk about their weekends. Then, I was told to remove my shirt for an EKG, which I wasn't expecting, and will probably cost several thousand dollars. Seven sticky pads were affixed to my arms, legs, and hairy chest, where one still remains, probably secreting some strange chemical into my blood.

The EKG took less than a minute to perform, at which point the caffeinated nurse told me she was stepping outside to show the results to the doctor. I was certain that something was wrong. 'Doctor,' I imagined her saying, desperately, 'he has a lump of cheddar cheese where his valves should be!' Then the doctor would patiently walk into the room with some crackers, and we would all have a fondu party before I died. As it so happens, showing the doctor the results was just a formality, and I'm still alive.

I was sorry to see coffee-nurse leave, and tried to figure out some insurance form balanced on my knees atop a Better Homes and Gardens, while realizing I really had to go to the bathroom. The doctor came in like she'd been waiting in the wings for her cue and asked me all kinds of questions about family members, childhood pets, political affiliations, UFO sightings, but still nothing about my colon. Actually, she just asked about my medications and then told me to 'protect my wellness.' I told her that my wellness and I were estranged, but still write to each other occasionally. Actually, I didn't.

They didn't do the really simple procedures, like tapping my knee with the rubber mallet to test reflexes. It was probably phased-out because it didn't cost enough, or they figured that if I had walked to the clinic without getting hit by a car in the major intersection out front, my reflexes were at least passable from a 'keeping me alive' standpoint. Maybe next time I'll get a CAT scan, just for fun.