Thursday, November 12, 2009

What's up Doc?

"Let's get physical!" or "Let's get A physical."

Hmmm? Olivia Newton John or...my doctor?

I do not like going to the doctor. In fact, I don't even like writing the word "doctor". Having to type it twice has already given me an ulcer. Great. Now I have to go to the doc...MD.

My aversion to the whole world of needles, stethoscopes and lil’ unchewable pills has been around for some time. I’m pretty sure it started around the time that I was born.

After having spent ten, wonderfully relaxing, months in the comfort of my mother’s womb, getting slapped on the butt by a strange, masked man, with rubber gloves, as soon as I entered the world, formed some early walls.

Now, it’s not as though I perceive the physician as a tool of evil - although I do think that only an evil mind could have conceived the rectal thermometer – it’s just that I find them…uncomfortable (the doctor, that is).

Maybe it’s just me, but I have a hard time developing a really solid relationship with someone who, every time we get together, needs to jam a wooden stick down my throat, steal my blood or make me cough.

Look, Doc. If we could just talk…or watch a movie, once in a while, maybe I’d visit more often. But I’m not going to get all giddy-like about having to pee in a small bottle.

As a young child I heard that, “An apple a day will keep the doctor away”. So, an apple a day it was. I figure that in my life-time, I’ve eaten…oh…let’s say 11,000 apples. Give or take a few.

How much credit goes to the apple, I’m not really sure, but after 36 years, I am proud to say that I have managed to keep my doctoral encounters to a bare minimum.

Not only have I been able to avoid my family physician, with phenomenal success, but I have also never been in the hospital for any reason, other than to visit or be born (which was kind of out of my control).

That is really quite miraculous, considering I partook in multiple head first slides on gravel, falling down flights of stairs on purpose and juggling coat hangers.

Mind you, catching that one coat hangar with my eye did land me, briefly, in a walk-in clinic.

But, even with that unfortunate accident, the number of trips I’ve made, during my adult years, to my medical practitioner’s office could be counted on one hand…maybe even a paw.

Come to think about it, I’ve been hit by lightning more often.

And, only two of those strikes caused me to consider medical help. Other than the occasional short term memory failure…I’ve experienced no negative effects.

In fact, only two of those strikes caused me to consider medical help.

Other than the occasional short term memory failure…I’ve experienced no negative effects.

Obviously, if I’m going to see the Doc...I must really feel something is wrong. So, you can imagine the shock, and scare, I gave everyone in my life, when I mentioned that I would, voluntarily, be paying a visit to the man in white.

But, I don’t believe I had any choice. Last Tuesday, one look in the mirror was all it took. What I saw, that morning, was quite un-settling actually. I’m a proud man…but, this time, I knew I was going to need help.

And, I’ll be honest…despite the genuine sense of urgency, getting myself to make the appointment was still like pulling teeth.

Which reminds me…I haven’t been to the dentist since I got my braces off. Wow! 25 years go fast. I should drop in, one day, just to see if my dentist is still alive.

Anyways, that afternoon, I headed down to the Medical Clinic (aka House of Horrors).

When I walked in my worst fears were confirmed, by those seated around the waiting room. I must have looked deathly ill, because after the collective gasp, even the patient with the face mask got up and left.

Now, I really don’t blame him. I was not a pleasant sight. My hair was all dishevelled, my lips were dry and cracked, my skin was pale and my eyes were blood red. I looked worse than that guy Edward from the movie Twilight (that boy’s not well).

However, still in the waiting room - after two hours…and 17 Chatelaine magazines - I discovered something. It was great news!

I didn’t need a doctor, after all.

Apparently, according to what I read, my problem wasn’t anything that a brush, lip balm, some sun and a good night sleep wouldn’t be able to cure.

I was so thrilled. I tore out an article, called “Seven Keys to Super Soft Skin”, told the secretary that I’d been healed and skipped out of the office.

Once home, I immediately subscribed to Chatelaine…in Robert Pattinson’s name. Hope it helps him, like it helped me.

Have a good one,
Timmy

P.S. I'd take Olivia Newton John...just incase you were wondering.

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