The Doctor’s Secret Waiting Room

A visit to the doctor’s office is always a bit frightening. Even if you are just going in for a checkup, you have that twinge that perhaps they will find something terribly wrong with you.
After a checkup a few years ago, when my doctor phoned me at home that night, just hearing his voice aged me four years. He told me my blood sugar was 499, which, if you know about such things, means that I was walking around in a coma. (Yesterday it was 99, thank you.)
The doctor’s waiting room ought to be divided into hermetically sealed sections: one for disease-ridden patients who are flaking off germs and other living organisms which will attach themselves to your otherwise healthy self; and one for me: The Tim Nicholas Waiting Room, sprayed down with Clorox, Pledge, and Raid.
I don’t mind waiting an hour past the appointment time, contractually locked in by me and the receptionist months ago. In fact, I can understand the idea of overbooking.
But I do believe that the doctors and staff get together, pick at least one hapless patient each day, ignore him or her completely, and bet $10 on low long it takes for the patient to complain.
When I finally get the invitation to “come on back” by the nurse, I falter again. The nurse asked me to be weighed. Of course, you know that each of my shoes weighs at least three pounds.
The stuff in my trouser pockets is another four pounds. Add that to the three or four pounds the rest of my clothes weight and I’m doing pretty good.
My bathroom scales are even better. Just after my shower, my scales apparently weigh me about eight pounds under my doctor’s office adjusted weight. I’ll sell them to you for $300.
Back at the doctor’s office, the nurse lately has been adding to the insult by checking on my height. Why do you think she does that to a full-grown man?
Now that I’ve reached a ”certain age,” apparently my bones have begun to settle, and I am now getting shorter. At my current rate of shrinkage, I will be three feet tall in two years.
Then she sends me into yet another room to wait. This is the room they should have put me in first. There are rubber gloves to play with, a defibrillator to disassemble, and time to restock my home first aid kit.
Plus, it’s fun checking out the needle container and licking all the tongue depressors. By the way, what goes through your mind when you think of running your tongue along a tongue depressor or popsicle stick? Goose bumps? Worse?
The examining room also has those full color pictures of a detailed part of the human anatomy. I’ve often wondered if they put you in the room that has a picture of what they think is your real medical problem in case the doctor must verify where those parts are.
My deepest belief if that someday, I’ll be put into that special secret examining room, the one with the plasma screen cable TV, free snack bar, and massage.
They tell me I’m on the waiting list for it. They said they’ll call me when it’s time. They even have table games, like Operation.
The other thing I have wondered about was what is on my chart. I’m sad to say I finally sneaked a look. It consisted of a single page with only a few words. The message was, “Gold mine! Tim’s parts are wearing out on a regular basis, so be creative.”

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