A Date with the Doctor

Yeah, so I had a date with my primary care provider, as the insurance company refers to him.  I last saw him probably 3 years ago.  My wife sent me in that time, for a visual exam to check a spot for skin cancer and another place to look at something else she thought was something irregular.  I told her I was fine, and then the doctor agreed with me that I was fine, after a cut and a biopsy and a visual exam of the other thing, which was nothing.  I hate the doctor.  And I hate the insurance overlords, who have drastically increased their *cut* of my income, and not increased my benefits.

Obama was horrid to me.  Obamacare is costing me additional THOUSANDS every year.  So far, Trump is just a case of “meet the new boss; same as the old boss.”  Unfortunately, politicians who win have their finger on the pulse of whatever fears or dreams motivate people to vote for them, and they know what to say and how to say it, but once they get into office, many of them are exposed to be fucking idiots.  I hate politicians.  The ones in office are all too detached and too ignorant of real-life issues to actually serve the common good.  When you forget how much a loaf of ordinary bread, or a pound of ordinary meat, or a  gallon of ordinary milk, costs because you eat what your fucking chef cooks for you, and your only interest in the price of a gallon of gas is because you’re invested in futures, you no longer serve the common good.  And if you’ve lived in Washington, D.C., living off the taxpayer dollars, “high off the hog,” as the expression goes, for more than 8 years, you’re out of touch with your constituency and need to be replaced by someone who knows what the fuck is going on in your old community, and you need to go back to getting a regular day job so you remember how hard THAT is for the ordinary commoner.

A politician should not become a millionaire while in office, because if they do, either we taxpayers are paying them too much, or they are taking advantage of someone or some situation that we commoners don’t know about.

I digress.  We now return you to your regularly scheduled rant, already in progress:

I hate the doctor but I had a date because the Boy Scouts require a physical if you want to go camping.  They don’t want you dying while you’re hiking or sleeping in their campsite, so they want some assurance that you’ve got a reasonable chance of survival.  I told him I was fine, and again, he agreed with me that I’m physically fine.  We didn’t address the mental-ly aspects of things.  But then, to add ass-ault to (alleged) inure-y, the doctor suggested a prostate exam *after* I told him everything was fine.

He gave me the finger, and afterward, agreed with me that everything felt good. Well, thank you very much.  I hate the doctor. I used to just hate him as a concept, just hating doctors and nurses in general due to previous events from which I still suffer what I perceive as mild ptsd- too many doctors invading my privacy, cutting, nurses being rude and verbally abusive, all of them poking, palpating, “practicing” medicine, then more cutting.  I literally had a panic attack as a little kid because a lady in a different uniform LOOKED a little like a nurse.  If I go to the doctor, I have a stress attack, so how is that beneficial to my health?  But today I hate this specific doctor and I swear I still feel what might be a small scratch in there. I should have offered him a manicure and demanded dinner, wine, flowers and compliments, and reminded him to “be gentle with me, it’s been a long time.”

But, for any of both of my two concerned readers, my BP is down, my weight is down, my pulse was slightly elevated (only 15 bpm above normal resting rate, but hey, wonder why that happened?), my prostate is fine, and hooray, if I want to go and if I can afford it and if can figure out the time off and the repairs to my tent, I can go camping with my son and the rest of the boy scouts this year.  Woo hoo.  No, I’m not a doctor, but I seem to have my own finger on the pulse of my own health, because I’ve been right for the entirety of my adult life, about my weight, my stress levels, my vitamin and mineral needs, my mental condition, and lately, about the mole and the other skin thing Mrs M wanted to know about, about my cholesterol and vitamin D and other blood chemistry levels Mrs M wanted to know about, my general health as it pertains to surviving a Boy Scout campout that the Boy Scouts wanted to know about, AND my prostate, that the doctor wanted to know about.  And the other obvious things.  I’m allergic to some pollens and sensitive to other things, including our new dog.  It’s not his fault.  If I were less informed and self-aware, I might not feel this contempt.  But I know how I am, and I’m fine, thank you very much.

If I were a doctor, I’d want to be a mental health provider so I could prescribe therapeutic regularly scheduled, and occasional PRN romantic encounters with Mrs M.  Because those are so much better for me than going to a doctor.  PRN is short for pro re nata, Latin for “as the situation demands.”  Or, “as needed.”  I’m afraid I hold more information in my head than I know what to do with.  For example, I recall the old grammatical rule that “a preposition shouldn’t ever end a sentence.” (See the prior sentence, as the rule has fallen into the abyss of ignorance, because it’s a rule no one cares about.  I’m only sensitive to grammar rules in my own writing, but I break those all the time, too.  I wonder if I’m not aware of some rule about profanity…)  But alas, my knowledge is just knowledge I have, not knowledge I’ve let the requisite people know I know in order to “earn” some kind of recognizational documents.  I also know a lot about cooking, but I’m not recognized as a chef.

Also, if I were a doctor I’d need a much cooler name.  Doctor Mumple?  Doesn’t hold a candle to Doctor Von Doom, or Doctor Strange, or Doctor Octopus, or any of the other arch-villain OR superhero doctor names.  Any suggestions, if I ever go back to school for the doctorate, what I might have my name changed to? (Doctor Grammarian is right out, I just did the preposition thing again.)

I’m fine.  Thank God, I survived another trip to the doctor.  But they refused to tell me how much I’d be charged, so I’m waiting for the other proverbial shoe to drop.  Today, there’s a little less unnecessary bullshit to handle before I go to work, thank God again.  Because there’s housework, there’s work, there’s maintenance and repairs, and then there’s more housework, because after one washes the dishes, the wife and kids return home and make more dirty dishes and additional filth.  I’m OK for now.  But I need to prepare breakfast for the dog and make sure he gets his morning workout.  Fuck!  I’m the dog’s personal trainer and chef.  Is my dog smarter than me, or is he just a brilliant politician, getting his constituency to do whatever he wants?!

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2 thoughts on “A Date with the Doctor

  1. Rude doctor really should have trimmed his claws and bought you dinner first.

    I think you should be called Dr, Mumplestein. Create Mumplestein’s monster, make a gazillion bucks. Or just train it to eat all the politicians so they have to be replaced with average Joe’s who get what being a commoner is like.

    Here’s to a good day, Mate. Ha ha ha, jinxed it out of the gut, didn’t I? ❤

    Liked by 1 person

  2. The dog may very well become Mumplestein’s Monster. Or maybe I’ll become his monster. Or maybe a little of both. He’s terrified of thunder, cats, and little barky dogs, and fearless and enraged at big barky dogs, squirrels, squirrelly boys who are friends of my son, and other strangers. I’m afraid of doctors, strangers, and control freaks who use people in the guise of helping them (“here, let me help you, while you give me [fill-in-the-blank]” and I’m the one who ends up losing that value exchange), and I’m enraged at time all the time because there isn’t enough, physics when it decides to act like a jerk, and stray hair and debris that’s still on the floor after I’ve just vacuumed or swept or mopped (or all of these).

    Yesterday I cleaned a tiny section inside the fridge and the floor under the fridge, and had all the dishes done and the table and counters cleared. Today I got up, took the dog for a walk, and looked, and I saw the counters and the table cluttered with shit (thank God, not literal shit), and a blooming flower garden of dirty dishes from God-knows-where and -when. At least i have my happy little patch of floor under the fridge, and no new spills inside the fridge.

    Like

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