Thursday, February 3, 2011

Doctor's visit

Originally published in my mind, many years ago in an old journal (this one is dedicated to Mel C).

So I finally went to the doctor yesterday. I was attended by a very pleasant middle-aged Asian man, with large bulbous sacks underneath his solemn knowing eyes. He asked me all the right questions, touched me in all the right places, made me stretch and show him how uncoordinated I’ve become, and even took a urine sample to check for kidney problems (which there were none), to which he concluded that there was no conclusion.

“Most likely not a bad appendix”, he said in a slight Korean accent, “because you have had no nausea, fever, constipation, or real colicky pain, but,” he added, “appendixes have been known to be tricky little devils - especially the deadlier ones. These evil appendixes”, he continued, “are quite docile and can rupture with very little pain, causing almost certain death to the unsuspecting”. He chuckled and I half-heartedly joined in the merriment.

I imagined my ancient ‘evil’ friend waking out of its 30-year primordial slumber and clandestinely oozing itself out into my bowels. There it would sit patiently and wait till the final stages of peritonitis set in over my ‘unsuspecting’ body. And as I faded out of existence, its primitive dominance would once again be complete and absolute, if not for a short fleeting dying moment for the both of us; that greedy bastard.

My fantasy was short lived as the Dr. reassured me that it was highly unlikely that mine was of the ‘evil’ kind. Content with his oath, we resumed with our thorough conversation. He said he wasn’t going to rule anything out and went on to methodically explain what real colicky pain meant, what a hernia would feel and look like, and what a mild muscle strain would entail. To which he seemed to think that the later was the cause of my minor, but constant discomfort.

His final diagnosis was that I should keep monitoring the pain, and if it got worse, to either come back and see him, or to seek some sort of emergency medical attention. That I should drink more water, since the stale pungent urine sample I had given him, when looked at under the microscope, had affectionately reminded him of the yellow river - complete with junk boats floating along to market. Also, that I should try not to exert myself too much. And that I should really try to get some exercise. His trained eye could easily tell that mine was an extraordinarily unfit body.

I thanked him, shook his hand amiably, and departed already feeling much improved. Now that I was a bit more at ease, I could concentrate on my other more real problems, such as getting a job and getting on with my career (or lack there of). But most importantly, I now had the time to come up with a nastier, more treacherous medical ailment, which would help impede me from doing or accomplishing anything at all.

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