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Volume 3 #39 April 15, 2009
Doctors without Borders and Doctors without Morals. FYI: The first mentioned are these altruistic MDs. Does that word really apply to anyone? They go to Third World Countries and apply their expensively learned skills to minister meds and care to those kids one sees on the television spots. Ya know. The tug-at-your-hearts and purse strings ones.They show you some bearded, trustful looking middle aged guy standing next to a little, six year old cute-as-can-be girl named Marie. Who, by the way, looks a lot healthier than I did at that age. I won't say these spots are bogus but... one's mind does harken back to Sally Struthers who used to be the front for these organizations. I think they had to dust her 'cause she looked as though she had just devoured a Third World Country. Shame on me for knocking docs who give up their lucrative Fifth Avenue offices and hypochondriacal money-shoving wealthy clientele to suffer in some snake and bug infested overseas slum. They should be lauded for all the vaccination needles they must endure to ensure they do not contract the diseases that they are there to treat. Also, an apology to Ms. Struthers for being... well... fat! I don't understand how anyone finds the time to eat so much to maintain a size 74 dress. Anything's possible, I guess. Spare me the details. I have fataphobia or whatever psych designated term that has been determined to diagnose my fear of fat people. I am beginning to shiver. So, let's move quickly along. Now to, Doctors without Morals. Ever go to your primary health care provider and not be forced to wait, at least, two and a half hours? And that's just to fill out those bleedin' long forms filled with some pertinent info but mostly meaningless bilge. Then, another pacing charged hour later they actually call out your name. Well, at least, I'm in the clinical room. Got on the paper gown. My insurance designated Doctor has to arrive soon. Major, big time, wrong! Now, you're caught in a medical snare! You nervously look about you. Soap and hand disinfectants. That's good. Rubber gloves. Wonder what they're for? Need a little Psycho music, here. The infamous padded examination table with the dreaded stirrups! Panic time. Got to find the exit. Crawling out a window is a definite option. But all you can find are calendars and note pads with drug companies' logos plastered on them. Face it. You're doomed! It's just phase two of the medically dictated Doctors without Morals trip. Just another fear filled waiting room. You try to shuck and jive yourself with phrases like: "It'll be any minute, now. Can't keep you in this room, forever." By now, it's a prison. What? Did they take Diabolic Control 101 at University? Ya got no choice, babies. Wait it out or freak it out. Then hope arises. The Doctor actually pokes his or her head in, smiles and says: "It'll just be a moment, Hon." You sigh and loosen your white and probably bruised knuckles a bit. Fool! They ain't gonna trod back your way 'til they say the exact same thing to the other seven patients they booked in your time slot. Now, you look for the mini-bar. Must be some booze in here, some place. NOT! Somehow, you're weathering got you through it. A resignational purple haze takes over. Time means nothing. It's a grateful blur. Doctor comes in. Asks you the exact same questions that you answered on those oh-so-distant required forms. Three secs and it's over. You fumble your clothes back on and stumble to any sign that reads Exit. Ignore everybody in the original waiting area. Grab your designated driver. (In my case, my little guy's either asleep or tapping the keys on his laptop.) Anyway, you're out! I look at my ever patient dude and say loudly and sweetly: "Get me to the nearest saloon".
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©2009 Carol Ann Carson
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