Archive | 10:50 pm

My Trip to the Doctor

24 Feb

For whatever reason, God hates us. God hates Texas. He throws wave after wave of unpredictable weather our way, leaving it up to us to tough it out as our allergies and seasonal sicknesses run rampant, to keep our own chins above the sea of mucus that we all must ride for the winter/spring/summer/you know what really all the seasons.

I’ve been struck by the big, heavy hand of the congestion monster. I went to the doctor.

“I don’t feel so good,” I tell the woman on the phone. The woman is a receptionist at my doctor’s office.

“All right…” she says. “Who is this?”

“This is Kyle. When can we meet?” Every time I make an appointment, I like to use the question “When can we meet?” It’s much more intimate, and so unabashedly audacious that it intimidates the person on the other line into immediately meeting my needs. They’re afraid. They’re afraid of when we can meet.

“Doctor Earnhart wants to–” She’s interrupted by a voice in the background. It’s a man’s voice. He’s asking who she’s talking to. I hear him reference “That guy who’s always asking when he can meet with people.”

“Hello?” I say into the receiver.

“Yes. Mr. Irion, Dr. Earnhart is only available at his Ovilla Road office now. Would you like me to make you an appointment at that office?”

“Are you going to be there?” I ask, crossing my legs and blushing into the phone. My coyness is all over the phone.

“Um, no. I don’t work there. I work at the Main St. office–here–here at the office you called just now.”

“You’re such a sassy little ferret,” I say. I’m horrible at pet names as well as come-ons, as displayed with this next remark: “Why don’t I come down there and let you tape me to someone’s head?”

I hear the nurse sigh. “Dr. Earnhart will see you at nine thirty tomorrow morning at 874 Ovilla Road. Can you make that?”

“Oh yea, corn-ears. Can you let me slip my cotton gin into your–” There’s a click and dial tone. So playful.

The next day is blanketed in whiteness as flurries of snow flakes fall. I walk out of my door, trot to my car, and drive to the veterinarian’s office.

I reach the Ovilla office and pull into the parking lot. I’m surprised to see stables in the back of the new office. I approach the entrance and pull back a thin, battered door to see  a waiting room that is filled with a staggeringly high population of blind people–all holding tight to their seeing-eye dogs and their seeing-eye cats and their seeing-eye rabbits in boxes. There’s a woman in the corner cooing to her seeing-eye lizard, which is staring blankly at her from a plastic container. She has wispy gray hair and her skin seems to hang from her frame as if it were made for a much larger woman. I sit next to her.

“Where’s your animal, young man?” she asks me.

“My animal? I didn’t bring an animal. I’m not blind,” I say.

“Obviously not–you see me.” She smiles to reveal only a handful of decaying yellow teeth that run along her gums like old gravestones.  I jerk to the back of my chair as a pang of fear erupts in my gut.

“How do you know I’m looking at you?” I ask. I reach my hand out and wave it in front of her glassy, cataractous eyes.

“Oh young man, you’re so silly. These eyes may not be brand new, but they still serve me well enough to see you.”

“To be real honest with you, lady, I think you’re full of shit, but since you kind of look like a scarier, dead version of my grandma, I forgive you for lying to me without you even asking.” I stand up and go to sign in with the receptionist.

A few minutes later, I’m called into the back by a burly, tomato-shaped man I’ve never seen before. His eyes point in different directions and his mustache has the frantic appearance of steel wool. “Hey-lo young man. Earnhart told me I was supposed to see you today. Come on back!”

I follow him down a rank and poorly-lit corridor. The floors are of linoleum and as I step across it I feel a thin layer of grit scraping my feet. We enter a small examination room with a large metal table at its center. More linoleum counters. There’s a small scale in the corner of the room. He lifts it and places it on the table.

“Hop up,” he says.

“No?” I say.

“Oh, come now,” he says, stepping forward and placing both hands on the table.

“Yea…Still no. Yea, I’m not getting on this ta–”

He reaches out and grabs me by the scruff of my neck. I hate being treated like an animal, and I start to tell him so, but ruin any case I have when I inadvertently hiss and claw at him.

He weighs me.

“Well, you’ve maxed out the scale!” He laughs a phlegmy, wheezing laugh. “Looks like I’m just going to have to guess your weight.” He writes down 8 lbs. and pulls me down off the scale, but doesn’t let me get down from the table. “It’s time to take your temperature,” he says.

I open my mouth.

“No sir, this ain’t that kind of temperature. Now drop ’em.”

All is darkness

All is cold.

He puts a thermometer in my butt hole.

I walk out into the cold February air feeling hollow–feeling as though I’ve been gutted of something precious and essential. I turn my face to the sky, then pop two or three of the heart-worm pills the doctor gave me.

The End.

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