By contributing writer Madeline Helen

Much like everyone else, from time to time, I am stressed the fuck out. Recently this has happened to me. There is a long list of really good reasons, and none of you gives two shits, three fucks, or a God damn what those reasons are, so I’m going to skip right on to the doctor visit that resulted from this stress level and the resulting physical symptoms.

For about a week now, I have been unable to eat a normal meal without feeling as if I am going to projectile vomit and then willfully break the ban on burning, by stoking a fire in my gut for several hours. After trying approximately 800 times the recommended dosage of famotodine, I deduced that medical attention might be in order.

Not being particularly partial to the men in the white coats, I do not have a regular doctor. So I made an appointment with the Dr. Du Jour. I knew I was in trouble when I found out his name contained no vowels and required a loogie to pronounce. Upon meeting him, I was thrilled to find that he stood roughly the height of an Oompa Loompa, with a terrorist complexion and jet black hair styled a la 1950’s Elvis Presley.


“And here you can see that when the feet receive improper circulation, you may develop what I like to call, ‘Blue Suede Shoes.'”

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!

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