Next Patient Please
At 9:02 AM I walked through the office door of the orthopedic surgeon for my scheduled 9:30AM appointment. Arriving early only ensured that the inevitable paperwork would be filled out, copies of my insurance card made and I could then wait an extra twenty minutes past my scheduled time. As we are all aware, doctors are never on time, except for their bills; no delays in that department. I approached the receptionist and gave my pedigree in full account. I was then handed a clipboard and told to fill out all the high-lighted areas and return them when I was finished. This was said in such an autocratic manner that I felt a cardboard figure dressed in scrubs and disguised as a human was talking to me. I found an empty seat and began the litany of paperwork.
Fifteen minutes and I was back at the receptionist with the completed forms. She took them from me, forced a smile and said (as they all do); "Just have a seat and the doctor will see you shortly." Shortly? How is that measured in time? I went back to my chair and dug through the always outdated magazine collection. Who in the hell subscribes to these periodicals and why does the television play infomercials about prescription medication? Damn, at least put on CNN so we can have something to do. Finally, after exactly seventeen minutes of waiting, I was called and led back to the examination room. Who chooses the paintings? Better yet, who gets paid for them and why? These were my thoughts as I was led to the inner sanctum.
The nurse stopped at exam room 2 and said; "Just wait here and the doctor will see you shortly." There is that damn word again. I am beginning to think that shortly falls somewhere between fifteen to twenty minutes. She closed the door and I was shut away for another round of waiting (only shortly, though). Having been to enough doctors in my time, I had the good sense to bring the February issue of Newsweek with me (even though it is June) so I could continue reading the article I had started (those wacky terrorist are at it again).
Studying the exam room is another fun filled thing to do. The plastic replicas of certain body parts or organs partially cut away to expose the intricacies is always amusing. Who makes these? Where can I get one? I want the job of ordering these items. Imagine that;" No listen; just send me seven hearts, two lungs and three of the partially removed left face. Yeah, that's right, three of the left face." Wouldn't that be fun? I am brought back to reality with a soft knock on the door; although it is half way opened before this occurred. In steps the man who has, by my watch, kept me waiting thirty minutes past my scheduled time. I should charge him.
He strides in with a smile that instantly makes me think a painful anal probe is about to be prescribed although I am there for my wrist. He shakes my hand with such force that I believe he is trying to inflict more damage to make surgery certain. As I wince in pain he apologizes and starts the exam. "Well, I looked over your X-rays from the ER and you have a fracture." he begins. "Why don't you take off that brace and let's see what's going on, huh?" he instructed while reading my chart. "So, you're a chef?" he comments. "Got any good recipes?" he adds laughing. "No, idiot. Everything I do sucks but I get paid anyway." I said to myself before saying, "A couple." After removing the brace, he bends my arm in ways nature did not intend then says, "Let's see what's going on here." If I make it out of here without further damage, it will be a miracle.
After about five minutes of bending and moving my wrist in ways that Gumby cannot even accomplish, the doctor comes to the conclusion that, with a couple weeks of rest and some therapy, I should be good to go. "Remember to keep the brace on all the time, except when you shower, okay?" says the genius. "What do I do about work?" I asked. Since I am right handed and my job sort of necessitates that two hands be used, I wanted to know where this would leave me. "Is there another function you could perform? Other tasks without using your hand?' he replies. "No. I am a chef. I cook." I say bluntly. "Well, I think it would be best to take the time off and let the fracture heal. Going back too soon could cause further damage." he suggests. "I can write you a note to give to your employer." he added. "Whatever. It happened at work anyway." I say. With this session over he writes the excuse for two weeks off and sends me back up front to schedule my next appointment in two weeks.
I walk to the receptionist (who is still under the spell of the evil cardboard demon) and set the date. As I walk back to the waiting room, my friend, who has the patience of a saint, stands up and we walk out together. She asks what the doctor said and I give the full account, including my thoughts that this guy definitely plays some major role in the torture of something, somewhere. We head for the car and back to the restaurant so that I can deliver the news. Nobody will be upset. An accident is just that, an accident. My biggest concern now is what to do for the next two weeks. The remainder of the day, and a better part of the evening will be spent on the barstool. One day down, thirteen more to go.
Arriving at the airport (I decided to fly home and visit as well as drink) an hour before my scheduled doctors visit gave me plenty of time to get my wrist ready for another punishing round of abuse that masqueraded as an exam. I walked through the door and up to the receptionist (who was surprisingly life like) and was instructed to sign in and, you guessed it, have a seat and wait. I managed to find the metro section of the paper someone had left behind and settled in for my turn. Eighteen minutes later, I was called and led back to the chamber of torture, or, more commonly known as the exam room.
The doctor came in after about five minutes (I suspect the last recipient of the good doctors' methods of treatment gave up the information quickly) and extended his hand. Having the right mindset, I simply raised my hand and smiled. He got the subtle hint and said; "So, how are we feeling?" Plural. Is he seeing double? "Much better." I said. He smiled and said; "Good, well take off that brace and let's have look, shall we?" He reached for my wrist and began the excruciating flexing. "Damn, man. That hurts."I yelled. "Sorry. Still a little tender?" he asked. "Only when you try to twist it off."I shot back. "Well, I think you're ready for therapy. I think three times a week for the next two weeks should do the trick. In the meantime, keep the brace on?" he said. "Can I at least go back to work a few hours a day? I am getting bored?" I begged. He agreed that a few hours a day of light duty could be beneficial in healing. "Don't try to go back full force or you'll do more damage. That could cause surgery and we don't want that." he cautioned. Right. I bet. Cutting someone open brings about waves of joy that could only be labeled as orgasmic to this dude, I thought. "Thanks." I replied. "See you in two weeks." he said walking out the door.
At this point, I must admit, therapy was quite enjoyable. Three times a week, a twenty four year old brown haired goddess named Sandy conducted my sessions. These were finished with her massaging my hand and wrist at the end of each visit. I could get used to this although I am sure her boyfriend would find this troubling. I was rather disappointed when this time ended and considered causing further damage (I reasoned against this though). One last visit to the torture specialist was in order and the time had come. Off I went.
Walking up to the mannequin at the desk, I signed in and smiled into her glass eyes and took my seat for the long wait ahead. Twenty two minutes and I was back in the hot seat. Doctor Soft Touch (as I aptly called him) kept me waiting another twelve minutes before gracing me with his presence. "Doing good?" he asked staring at my chart. "Fine. Ready to go back." I replied."Well, let's take one more look and see, shall we?" he said. Why does this dude always ask that? That's why I'm here in the first place, moron. "You have made good progress. You can go back but I would suggest you take it easy the first few days. Don't want to overdue it you know?" he advised. "Thanks. Can I get my release now?" I asked. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the special pad. After some brief scribbling he handed me the note and wished me good luck. With that said, I rose and he shook my hand. Snap!! An audible pop from my wrist was suddenly drowned out by my ear splitting scream. I told you the guy was a torture specialist.
I am a professional chef who enjoys writing about the humor in everyday life.
Source: http://ezinearticles.com/
Added: July 19, 2008
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