THE DOCTOR WILL BE RIGHT WITH YOU

       I had been feeling pretty bad lately. There was constipation, diarrhea, premature evacuation -in vehicles belonging and not belonging to me- stomach cramping, vomiting, ect. It had been going on for a couple of months. I decided to do some sit-ups. Apparently, I surmised that if I got rock-hard abs and transformed my perennially sedentary carcass into a fitness machine in the next five minutes the illness would be miraculously excised from my body.
          It wasn't. In fact, it made it worse.

         My mom decided it was time for me to see a doctor. After reluctantly concluding that my flash fitness regimen wasn't going to remedy the situation, I agreed.

         The doctor was a small man with dark hair parted on the wrong side and had a thin sliver of a mustache lining his lip.  Your typical Sherlock Holmes suspect.  I told him my symptoms while my mother was present - and then she left the room.   

         “Please remove all of your clothes and put on this robe with the opening in the back,” said the doctor's nurse brusquely.

         “All of my clothes? Even my underwear?”

         “Yes, even your underwear.”

         She and the doctor left the room.

         I was seventeen. I'd been to the doctor for all of my shots, pink eye, sundry rashes, and a yellowing toe fungus. I never had to take off my underwear for any of that stuff. Why did he need me to take off my underwear? I thought it suspicious - so I left them on. There was knock at the operatory door.

         “Are you all set?” said the nurse.

         “Yes.”  I guess. Set for what?

         The nurse entered the room and instructed me to turn around and lean over the the exam table. I did as she asked. I was becoming increasingly aware of the fact that my suspicions about underwear removal were well founded.

         “We're ready doctor.” said the nurse.

         I heard the door open and the door close. The nurse took my hand in her hand. I felt a slight breeze along my backside as my robe had been lifted and then an exaggerated pause.

         “Miss, I need you to remove your underwear.”

         “Why? For what?!,” I said turning to face him, not understanding that when you have stomach problems your butt is obviously the first place any medical professional would want to look.

         “You've said that you are having bleeding with your bowel movements. I just need to take a look to make sure it is nothing serious.”

         This was still not sitting right with me, but he did say that he was just going to look. That eased my mind a bit. He turned away and I removed my underwear. I leaned over the exam table again and the nurse regained my hand.

         “So, what are you going to school for?” said the nurse in an attempt to calm me down.

         My palms were sweating.   I was shaking and my mind was racing with all the various ways at my disposal to kill my mother once I got out of here.

         “I want to be a dentist,” I said through gritted teeth.
         “Ewww, how could you look in mouths all day?”  I raised my head and looked the inane woman dead in the eye. Just at that moment I felt a warm sensation where I'd never felt a warm sensation. My body went stiff. I was in shock.


         “I'm never doing that again! I can't believe you took me there! I hate you. Do you know what he did to me?” I said tearfully on the car ride home.

         “The doctor said we need to make an appointment with a gastroenterologist for a colonoscopy.” my mother said.

         “What's a colonoscopy?”

QUICK! I NEED A GURNEY!

        “You have gout. Have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly,” the triage nurse barks upon my appearance at her window to check into the E.R.

       “Oh my God! I have what?”cradling my elbow to console it.

       My boyfriend, Ben, grabs me by my good elbow and leads me to the waiting area. Oh my God. I'm old. I'm old! I have gout. My mind is swirling in disbelief. My eighty-three year-old boss was just diagnosed with gout of the foot. All the afflicted actors in the new blockbuster ad campaign for the disease are like sixty plus years old, AT LEAST! It's the new “it” old people disease. My boss gave it to me! Is gout contagious? I never touched his foot. I never even saw his foot come to think of it. At no point while in his employment am I aware of my elbow touching his foot. Okay. I'm good on that front. I still have so much debt. Rent is due in three weeks. Will this keep me out from work for three weeks? Will I ever be able to work again? We'll be homeless. We won't be able to eat out anymore. Is amputation a possibility? What will my nub look like if it is a possibility? Will it be one of those nice smooth nubs, or one of those rough bumpy ones people try not to notice but they can't help it because it just looks so hideous that they have to look at it, but they don't want to, but they have to? Oh my God!

       “Stop it,” Ben says knowingly.

       “What?” I say with dazed look, having just deduced the inevitable outcome of my doomed rough, bumpy nub of an arm-less existence in a span of five seconds.

       “I know you. Stop thinking. I can see it in your face. The nurse was on a cell phone and looked at your elbow for two seconds and touched it for approximately zero point five seconds. I'd hardly call that a definitive diagnosis. Calm down.” he says while shaking his head at me and looking for an early morning caffeine fix. “I'm going to go grab a coffee from the stand over there. You want one?” I half-heartedly nod yes, still occupied by my thoughts. He leaves to get the coffees.

       You know what? He's right. It could be something completely different. The nurse looked at my elbow for two seconds. You can't make a complete diagnosis in only two seconds. And she isn't even the doctor. The doctor has to check it and see what is wrong. A nurse can't do that. Ben is totally right. He's always the more grounded one, whereas I'm the one immediately jumping to the worst possible scenario. He is absolutely right. It might not be gout. It could be anything. There are tons of things it could be -- literally tons of different things.

       “Here's your coffee, darlin," happy to finally have his fix. I reach for the coffee.

       “Ben, what if it's cancer?”

Promises

Clasping fireflies and making their lights our own.
"I’ll take you out for 18 holes."
The worms will wriggle on the hooks.
Baseballs don’t throw themselves,
But I can always read my books.

Lighting firecrackers, clanging pots and pans.
I got a dog. His name is Pete.
His moustache is gone. Laughter to ensue.
"I’ll fix the car when I return."
But by then, it's time for the men in blue.

Hold on tight. The winds rush through my hair.
"Now take aim and be careful, it’ll throw you back."
Big Saturday breakfasts with the cartoons on.
With drink in hand at the bar shooting pool.
But I sit at home contemplating the move of my pawn.

A new family appeared in the rear view mirror.
No birthday cards, no telephone calls.
Alive, but asleep in the hospital bed.
Do I care at all?
Daddy’s dead.