I never cared about doctors. I never, ever wanted to go to one, and I definitely never wanted to be one. As a kid, the thought of going to see some strange man(1) dressed in a crisp starch bleach white robe, with a fancy name tag on his left breast, looking so fascist with his manicured smile and miserable life, was one of the very few things that made me want to vomit. In fact, today, as an almost-adult, I hardly ever go to see a doctor. I realize this might sound like an in-your-face ass shake about my swimmingly perfect health(2), but this is not true. To those facetious pricks, I say - I have known ailments. Not all health issues are unavoidable, as germs do exist, but for the most part, and in utter gratefulness, I have been existing with no real threat yet. And for those like me, you lucky bastards should rejoice in every moment of your easily perishable lives that you have two honest feet to walk on, at the least. Because the world is not fair to everyone.
Anyway, I digress.
It's just that, going to the doctor could never be, you know, fun. Like how much fun could you possibly have? I remember this one children's physician I had when I was about 9 or 10 years old, and his office smelled like the inside of a sealed plastic container that you haven't opened in a long time. It smelled fake, like stale humans. Like peroxide washed skin, left soaked to a prune and then dipped in wax. It smelled too clean. Like it was covering up something unforgivable, something lurking beneath the building’s bricks. That high bed table, strewn in hospital paper, making noise as you tried to climb, then sitting under a phosphorescent neon light, and this man observing you like a specimen of some sort, a robot covered in pink flesh, shaking in discontent. My body would fall limp but I’d remain tense. And he’d order me to raise my arm, to lower it, to look left and then look right, to open my mouth and say ahhh, to follow a pencil with my eyes, to breathe. Very nice, he'd say. Above, a carousel of hanging strings carried little origami sharks. Look up at the little sharks, he’d say enthusiastically, and this was the moment I'd start screaming like someone was cutting me alive, even though he hadn’t so far as touched my arm, and I'd watch the preying sharks, swimming in circles from the breeze of the fan and finally one would bite me, directly piercing my arm with sharp pain, and I'd raise my voice up a notch before a lollipop got shoved in my mouth.
Yeah, at one point I decided, that if given the choice, I would actually stand naked in front of all the bitchy judgmental popular kids at my middle school, than go to the doctor. Not much has changed.
Fortunately, as I got older, and stopped giving a shit, I've realized that unless you have some immediate health emergency, you don’t really have to go to the doctor. I mean, who regularly does annually check-ups anyway?(3) And if you do go, you can kind of slip by with the minimum, like: oh hey doc, whats up? yea, still smoking. I know I know, im trying (total lie), yea I know but I'm gonna do it, really this time (another total lie) no, nothing hurts. yeah, I take them all the time (lie #3 within five seconds of conversation) ok yea, great, it was good to see you too (lie #4) thanks a lot, doc! (lie 5) ok, yea, same time next year (unless I fucking fall and crack my skull open in which I case I won't be going to you anyway 'cause I'd be looking for the nearest fucking hospital, you pretentious dick! remind me, why do I fucking pay you?)
But in that case, in which you actually go for your check-ups, you officially win as a human and to your benefit, will never die(4). You win because, unlike me, you cared enough about yourself to have called the doctor's office to speak to the bitchy secretary who pretends she works for facebook, and has a bad left ear, so that you'll have to inconveniently take a day off work, or cancel something totally fun you had planned on the weekend, so you can go see some idiot playing dress-up for money because he uses a lot big words and knows the anatomy of the human body(5), after which, he'll take your money and tell you to fuck off since nothing is wrong with you anyway.
Aren't you glad you're no longer a kid? But wait, you docs are getting way too much credit here. I mean who keeps us smiling, really . . . only my most favorite professional in the world . . . the dentist.
. . . the dentist is great, 'cause at the dentist's you can just settle in for some degrading humiliation, as you're transformed into a victim of a slow silent torture, lying reclined under an enormous operational lamp with the voltage of a city power plant, and yet another strange middle-aged motherfucker sticks his fingers in your mouth while metal hooks pry it open, and all your saliva is being sucked out by miniature vacuums dangling from your lip, while this moron is asking you how your summer vacation has been. I mean, do they seriously think we want to talk to them while they dig around in our face, 'cause it's actually physically impossible trying to utter words because if you try to move your mouth to speak, the air vacuum sucks your lips to the back of your throat and you feel like an asshole who lost control of his face and resort to the awkward nodding and shaking of your head, hoping they stop delivering questions so you don’t feel obligated to answer.
One time, I went to the denstist, who was a very good family friend, and as I lay there, strapped, she began interrogating me with all sorts of mundane questions about my life. Side note: all dentists are just wanna-be therapists with sadistic personalities and a compassion for Stalin. I decided I would ignore my therapist dentist. I avoided her nose hairs, and tried not to inhale her unfamiliar breath. I wasn’t going to nod in agreement, nor shake in disregard. I would just lie there, letting her do work on my mouth. And you know what? She didn't even notice. She asked, and talked, and made up her own responses to those prying questions, meanwhile nonchalantly rummaging around in the staircase of my face like a busy bee digging for pollen. But for the first time, I walked out of the torture chamber with just a little bit of my dignity still in tact.
I realize I am a little biased with my slightly more passionate hate for dentistry because I had to wear braces for 5 years, only because this meant that I spend most of my teenage life at the orthodontist’s rather than at home. And yes, these were indeed the best years of my life.
My apologies to all the current and aspiring do-people-good-ers out there. Note that I am in no way mocking the amazing work you do, I for one, am clearly not smart enough to be a doctor or dentist (thank god), but that doesn't mean I can't point out how really fucking annoying it is to visit them sometimes.
1 sexual stereotyping at it's finest
2 watch, I'll get the flu tomorrow
3 seriously, live a little, will ya!
4 no, actually, you'll still die, just maybe not as fast, or perhaps faster, depends on which way you look at it
5 oh and they can add, but, whatever.
No comments:
Post a Comment