Inflicted and infested with modern medicine

I’ve had a few health issues lately, as befits someone who’s officially labeled as a “senior citizen” (I don’t feel that old, for the record). Because of this situation, I’ve spent some time at various medical offices. Here’s how the typical conversation goes when you enter a doctor’s or dentist’s office for treatment:

NURSE OR OFFICE WORKER: “Hi! How are you today?”

PATIENT: “Great! Just wonderful!”

N OR OW: “That’s fantastic! I’m just going to take you back for a few tests before you see the doctor/dentist!”

P: “Awesome! Let’s go!”

Here’s what the participants are actually thinking:

N OR OW: “Great! Another fat patient who probably skimps on personal hygiene!”

P: “I would rather be anywhere but here right now. Dead, even.”

N OR OW: “Come on back so we can stick you in various places, poke at you and make fun of you behind your back! I truly hope that I don’t have to see you naked!”

P: “I always suspected as much.”

Isn’t modern medicine wonderful?

You know you’re not “great” if you’re in there in the first place. They know it, too. But all parties ignore this and proceed to put on a happy face.

Then there’s the matter of insurance coverage, made so much more challenging with the introduction of Obamacare. Most medical offices have at least one person whose sole duty is to ascertain whether your insurance covers most or even all of the expenses involved. It never does.

Besides dealing with the examination or procedure itself, there’s the matter of the long wait in a big room with uncomfortable chairs and a TV set to a channel you’d never, ever watch at home. I’d just as soon have surgery as watch “The View,” or “Kelly and Whoever Can Tolerate Her Right Now.” At least the dentist’s office I go to, which caters largely to kids, has the sense to play the Disney Channel. Way more intellectual than “The View.”

Then they finally take you back to the great beyond, mercifully away from the unwashed masses. At this point, you sit in a little room, all by yourself, with no TV at all. This is the point when many mass murderers choose their profession. It’s kind of understandable.

Of course, you can amuse yourself by reading the doctor or dentist’s diplomas on the wall, possibly even memorizing them. Seeing the photo of the medical person with his or her family grinning out at the camera, you wonder how long they have to wait to see each other. Do they have to make an appointment, also?

I think that many people working in the medical profession actually wished they were in a more personally-rewarding career. The car repo man, for example. Or perhaps pest extermination.

Nevertheless, we will continue to submit ourselves to modern medicine, patients waiting patiently before they call our number. Hey wait, I think I heard my name.

Me? Moo!

About R. W. Weeks:

Rob is a retired Southern Illinois University instructor who lives on his family's farm in Union County Illinois. His mother Joan, who is a nice person, lives in Cape Girardeau.