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Volume 1 #3 July 19, 1999
This week's topic is Doctors. I am in a rag 'em down 'til their "Sawbones are picked clean" mood. All of you know about these MDs: GPs, Internists, Surgeons, Oncologists and for women the - I need a little Psycho music, here - Gynecologists. You men have other torture "specialists" you must endure. Butt (was that a Freudian slip?) I am a woman, no I won't sing the lyrics. So, I speak to the female trials and tribs. Alright, Ladies. I know you tensed up because of the trip that is comin' down. GYNECOLOGISTS!! Scenario: Worry, at least, six millennia in advance. Drag yourself into your closet. Wear what? Easy to get into and easy to escape with. The day arrives. You don't sleep the night before. The drill. Shower and shave every inch of your body. Pleading, don't let me get the dreaded "unfit to touch the human body RAZOR". I don't need to tell you what fate has dealt you. After you scrub every "nick" and cranny, you wish you had bought stock in Kleenex. You resemble a paper mummy. You put lotions on your body, just enough cologne. Oh so, carefully peel off the protective wrap. Yes! Only one still bleeding. You are thankful for having that singular gouging blessing. The makeup and hair routine. You shakily apply the necessary cosmetics. Only gouging your eyes a baker's dozen times with the "I've got you now" mascara sword. Your coif. Somehow, yesterday, you could part your hair. Now, even Moses couldn't part it. On to the Doctor's office. You shiver as you sign in. Smile at everyone in the crowded waiting room. Pretend to read whatever outdated magazine you can nonchalantly grab. You white knuckle it with a non page-turning hand. Wait... Wait... Wait... Finally, the nurse calls your name. You toss your hair, stand up and cross the room with that "Academy Award winning" glide. The weigh in. Of course, you've gained from ten to fifteen pounds since the last time you mounted those gallows. The nurse (with a voice that could crack the sound barrier) announces, "Oh! You've gained!" You'd shoot her an "if looks could kill" glance but you're afraid she'll hit a major artery when she does the blood draw. Proceed to the STIRRUP room. Instructions: Take off your clothes, put on paper gown. Assume the stirrup position. We're not talkin' ride 'em horsey, here. The blinding light above you brands you with your current inmate number. You hear the dirge of elevator music on the in house P.A. Again, the waiting ritual. "Ten minutes", the nurse so obediently proclaims: "and Doctor will see you". You lie there in the most unflattering and compromising position for (at the very least) the duration of a Richard Chamberlain miniseries. Turns out, nurse was correct. You get ten minutes from the Doctor. He prods, he pokes. You tense. He says, relax. You feel as though nervous rigor mortis is setting in. Finally, it's over. Escape, even though your pantyhose are so twisted you walk like your ankles are shackled. Beam me home, Scotty, so I can spend my parole worrying about next year!!

This postscript concerns the disappearance of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, Jr.
I considered going "dark" and not posting a column in light of the unfolding events that are consuming this weekend and beyond. This commentary was written several days ago, before the tragic vigil. We all react in privacy, now. Suffice to say, we must not forget but we must also sustain.

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©1999 Carol Ann Carson
All Rights Reserved! The author Carol Ann Carson retains all rights to this material! It may not be reprinted without the author's permission! All comments become the property of C C's Soapbox! and may be reprinted in this column. All names and E-mail addresses will be kept anonymous. Due to the volume of mail sent to this column please do not expect a personal response to each comment!

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