Press Zero
My annual physical was overdue by three years, so I called
the doctor’s office. Instead of a real
person, a familiar digital voice offered me prompts.
“If you are a new patient, press 1. If you are a doctor, press 2. If you’d like to schedule or cancel an
appointment, press 3, then enter the last 4 digits of your mother’s childhood
address, then hit pound sign, and follow the prompts around in circles until
you get back to this menu and start over. Or, if you’re a senior, press 0 and a
representative will be with you shortly.”
So I pressed 0 because I had been tricked by the
robo-voice before and gotten lost in a prompt maze trickier than the one at Halloween Pumpkin Farm. Then I was forced to listen to an easy-jazz version
of the Jeopardy them song. I stayed on
the line for so long that my age and weight had gone up a notch, so my forms
were no longer accurate.
A voice returned.
My heart raced. Finally, a real
person. Instead robo-chick said “We are
experiencing a high volume of calls, because you called at mid-morning on
Monday when everyone and his mother call.
Your expected wait time is 2 days.”
I put the phone on speaker and built a deck while I
was waiting. Later, just as I sat down
on the toilet with a good book, a real-live representative answered.
“Hello, this is Primayanda. How can I help you?”
I said “I’d like an appointment to see Dr. Nandani.”
She said “The doctor’s schedule is full until next
Spring. But you can see our nurse
practitioner Karen.”
I asked “What’s the difference between a doctor and a
nurse practitioner?”
She replied “A nurse practitioner cares.”
The nurse practitioner’s schedule was full for the
day. She couldn’t see me until she got
off hold with her malpractice attorney’s office, had lunch, vaped out back by
the dumpster, and rinsed her hands briefly in cold water.
“How is Thursday at 8AM? Does that work for you?”
“Do you have anything sooner?” Thursday morning was my Bloody Mary and nine
holes day.
“Not with Karen.
But we have an opening in thirty minutes if you don’t mind seeing the
nurse practitioner’s first-year, med-school intern Tiffany instead.”
I said “I’ll take it.
I’ll be there in a jiff.”
When I arrived, reception gave me a stack of fifty
forms and a pen that was out of ink, even though I’d filled out the same forms
on their user-unfriendly portal. The forms required my family medical history
all the way back to the Renaissance. I
checked yes to every box except three: mental illness, gender, and race –
things I’m no longer sure of.
The nurse practitioner took my temperature and blood
pressure and asked “How is your diet?”
I said “Pizza and burgers.”
“I want you to eat more salads, vegetables, and
fruits.”
I said “Okay.
Starting tomorrow.” Tomorrow is
when I do everything.
She pulled my chart and saw I hadn’t had any
vaccinations in my entire life because my parents were Presbyterian
survivalists. I’d first have to go to
Speedy-Lab and sit in their waiting room all day reading the last twelve issues
of People’s Sexiest Trans Magazine. The
lab lady pretended not to understand English, but I spoke a little Spanish, so
I asked her “Como esta usted?” She glared
at me, the way everyone from Ghana does.
The labs were sent to the doctor’s office and
“processed” for three weeks. Then I got an urgent secure message from their
portal saying my cholesterol, tryglicerides, thyroid, and attitude were all off
the charts. Could I return immediately
in five weeks? I pressed yes and filled
out their online credit report authorization form.
Finally, the day arrived. I sat in the waiting room and read the last twelve
issues of Sailboat, Horse and Quilt Magazine.
The nurse practitioner’s high school intern and her bff assistant finally
saw me.
She took one look at me and said “I’m referring you to
a proctologist.”
“Why?”
“You have an enlarged prostate.”
“How do you know that without even looking at me?”
“I’m just playing the odds. 80% of middle-aged white
men have enlarged prostates. Stop at reception on the way out to set up a
payment plan for your copay, and don’t overlook the tip jar.”
I was not going to a proctologist. All they do
is put on a rubber glove and bend you over, like a veterinarian horse-breeder
or a kinky escort. And they all have an
XXL glove size. I decided I better bite
the bullet and do it because all the men in my family had problems starting and stopping urination. I called the
procto-uro-alien-probe group and asked for an appointment.
A procto-receptionist said “We have an opening tomorrow.”
I said “Opening is a poor choice of words.”
Dr. Ben Dover was available to see me first thing in
the morning. While he was lubricating
his glove, he spoke in low, smooth tones to calm me, like I was a debutante in
the backseat of daddy’s car.
It all happened so quickly. It took only three seconds and four inches,
but it felt like the first day in prison with a lonely cell mate. The earth moved for a moment, then it was over
and he left without saying goodbye. Men.
Dr. Dover returned after
a hot shower in a hazmat tent and said “I felt a little bump. I’m referring you to a phrenologist.”
“Phrenologist? Isn’t that a brain doctor?”
“Yes. It was an unusually
large bump. Your head appears to have
been stuck up there for quite a while.”
