Press Zero

 

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.”