Dr. Blue Suede Shoes had a nurse present each and every time he spoke to me.
Please note that at no time was I nude or in stirrups, so I am left with the
impression that there are
42 pending lawsuits against the good doctor as we speak. Apparently, his
entourage of one was mute, as she uttered not a sound the entire 2.5 hour visit.
I explained my symptoms and the reason for my visit to Graceland that day.
Dr. Crying in the Chapel began to ask me a series of bizarre questions. This
Barbara Walters interview culminated with, “If you could change one thing to
make your life better, what would it be?” Are you fucking serious? Am I being
Punk’d here? After looking around for Ashton Kutcher, I realized that Dr.
Guadalajara was serious. I answered the question and waited for, “If you were a
tree….”
Dr. Peace in the Valley decided that I was depressed and felt Zoloft would
offer him the largest pharmaceutical kickback. I explained that I was stressed
out, but not depressed, and was not comfortable with this course of treatment.
He seemed taken aback by ability to form sentences, but conceded. He decided I
needed Imitrex for my migraines and Clonazepam for anxiety. He began to use some
sort of Egyptian code on his prescription pad and then stopped. Apparently, I
needed an x-ray. Well, of course I do! He hadn’t milked this visit for nearly
enough money yet!
I waited until the next moon phase before a technician finally arrived to
take me to the x-ray room. This room was a comfortable temperature for the
Arctic Fox. I was instructed to remove my bra and my pants. I asked the nurse if
she was planning to buy me a drink first, but she seemed unamused.
I took off the requested garments and put on the gown. She returned and took
two x-rays. I was requested to remain on the cold slab shivering until she could
figure out why I was not coming up in the system. On a brighter note, I do not
believe I aged at all during this time due to the nearly cryogenically frozen
state I was in.
After entering my information and retaking the x-rays, the Ice Queen finally
told me I could get up and get dressed. I willed my frozen joints to wiggle off
the table, clutching my breasts in my hands to ensure that my nipples wouldn’t
actually break off. I dressed as if I had just woken up next to a Wookiee after
a drunken binge and informed Grandma Freeze that I was ready to return to the
exam room that I will now refer to as my beach house, since I have to go to my
happy place while inside there in order to avoid an Incredible Hulk-like rampage
in an attempt to express my frustration. She returned me to the beach house and
told me Dr. All Shook Up would be with me shortly.
I read half a chapter of my psych homework and he finally swaggered in with
Nurse No Noise. Once again, he wrote hieroglyphics on his prescription pad and
tried to sell me on the Zoloft. I looked at him as if he forgot to zip his
sequined jumpsuit and explained that I still remembered our conversation during
the waning crescent moon. He argued that anxiety and depression was, by
definition, the same thing. Reeealllyyy? I’m not sure what dictionary you’re
consulting, but mine disagrees. I’m gonna take a pass.
This time, I think I actually saw the light bulb over his head as he realized
he had not drawn blood yet. Well why the hell not! I was assured that the
nurse would be in shortly to puncture my veins.
I figured I had until approximately sunrise, so I decided to redecorate.
While I was very proud of the way I arranged the cotton balls to spell out
REDRUM, I thought perhaps it might be a little over the top after the looks I
received from the two nurses who erroneously entered my exam room and were told,
“You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.” So I rearranged them into some flowers
and made an origami butterfly out of alcohol wipes.
After my nap, a teenager in Minnie Mouse scrubs came in. She acted as if this
might be her first time, or maybe she was just getting into character for
Halloween. Needless to say, she missed my vein completely, and, I shit you not,
turned the needle 90 degrees trying to find it. She asked me if my veins usually
roll when an attempt to take blood is made. I smiled as sweetly as humanly
possible and informed her that my veins can be seen from across the room, and in
my entire life, this was the first time anyone had ever had difficulty drawing
blood. I suggested it might be the tourniquet she placed around my bicep (I
still have the mark). She decided she would find someone else to draw my blood.
She left, apparently studied her edition of Phlebotomy for Dummies, and took
a full semester of classes before sending in her replacement. Fortunately, the
replacement knew how to draw blood and the rest went smoothly.
I went to the desk to pay my co-pay and
get my doctor’s excuse. I was informed that Dr. Jailhouse Rock had suggested
that they give me a referral to a psychiatrist to see if he thought I needed
further medication. What in the fucking hell? Yeah, I’ll be doing that right
away, Doc Dot Head.
I left and reviewed my prescriptions. In addition to the medication we
discussed, I also had a medication for ulcers, even though my x-rays showed no
ulcerations. Perhaps that phantom depression will be bringing them on and Dr.
Fools Rush In was just being proactive.
I ventured to the pharmacy and was greeted by a pharmacist who resembled the
apothecary from the original Bewitched series. Instead of discussing my
prescriptions, he inquired about my badge.
Department of Corrections I explained. He asked me, I shit you not, “So do
you have any bad guys up there in the prison?” Oh no, they murdered and raped
but they did it in a good Christian way. I started rummaging through my purse
mumbling about my gun, and he decided to go ahead and fill my prescriptions. I
arrived back home 4.5 hours later.
Uh huh huh…. Thank you, thank you very much…. Elvis has left the building!
