I can’t remember what atrocious life event initially compelled me to seek a general practitioner. It was likely the horror of turning thirty coupled by an inability to breathe effectively due to years of smoking. I do know that what followed was a string of horrifying visits to a myriad of physicians in Los Angeles, all of whom I believe are trying to kill me.
A transcript of my first visit to the doctor:
Doctor: So…you’re clearly overweight.
Doctor: Lose 20 lbs.
Me: I haven’t even gotten on the scale yet.
Doctor: Your cholesterol is high.
Me: How can you tell?
Doctor: I’m a doctor.
Me: Ok well I’m actually here because I have a bump on my arm.
Doctor: Stop making excuses.
Me: I’m not, I just…
Doctor: Get out.
I wish that any of that was a joke but I promise you I had a tape recorder in my pocket and that’s exactly how it went down. Truth be told, I actually did have a bump on my arm and that horrible woman, who I now refer to as The Fat Doctor, sent me to a surgeon to have it removed. Luckily the surgeon was very nice. Unluckily, he only had one arm. An Edward Doctor Hands, if you will. After my experience with The Fat Doctor, I was so bewitched by Edward’s kindness that I didn’t have the heart to refuse him the opportunity to perform a one-armed surgery.
On the day of my surgery with Edward Doctor Hands, I brought my friend Farnaz. In Farnaz’s defense, she valiantly opposed my procedure but I could not be talked down. I needed a surgery and this man, hand or not, was the man to do it. I could tell. It was all very minor and it took place during my lunch hour. Afterwards, I was impressed and by impressed I mean drunk. I didn’t remember anything which in my mind means everything went well. Mission accomplished.
For Farnaz, it was appalling. She later told me that Edward Doctor Hands seemed sedated through most of the procedure. She described how he unprofessionally answered a call during the process and was so reckless in his operations that at one point the cyst from my arm flew across the room and hit a nurse in the face causing Farnaz to pass out. What a wimp. For me, it was just like every other lunch break in that I spent the entire hour taking a nap in a strange place.
Last week I was sick, yet again, and had no other choice but to go back to The Fat Doctor. I needed a Zpac and I needed it bad. As usual, our visit was flabbergasting. She started by pretending she didn’t know me (puhleeease). She then opened my chart, acted surprised and said, “You’re super fat.” I was not going to fall for it this time.
Me: Listen lady, I need a Zpac.
Fat Doctor: You’re sick a lot.
Me: I know.
Fat Doctor: What do you think’s wrong with you?
Me: I don’t know! That’s why I’m at the doctor!
Fat Doctor: Did you know the swine flu is going around?
Fat Doctor: Someone just died.
Me: Ok, take it easy. Just give me the Zpac.
Fat Doctor: Your cholesterol is high.
Me: God! Damnit!
Fat Doctor: Do you have a temperature?
Me: I DON’T KNOW!!! I’M NOT A DOCTOR!!!
Fat Doctor: Ya know what you should get?
Fat Doctor: A Zpac.
During this process, she actually did try to take my temperature, at one point, but when she went to remove the thermometer, it fell on the ground and then she just sort of shrugged and wandered off.
I mean…I’m not even sure what to say here. I constantly complain that I’m in the process of dying and it’d be nice to know that a) anyone cares and b) my doctors are not the cause of these bereaving feelings. Clearly I can never go to the doctor again. I told you how I went to the dentist once and that animal told me I had eight cavities didn’t I? Well…never again. In my opinion, no one in the medical field can be trusted. I’m going back to self-diagnosing myself and buying medication off the street or stealing it from my Nana. Ya know what’s great about Nana? Two. Arms.