Saturday, November 23, 2013
I wonder if I had been a Doctor if I would still be so intent on finding one.
It's not my fault that the mystique surrounding Doctors lingers this many years and laughs in the face of every ounce of wisdom I have accumulated. Readers of my generation don't require any explanations or apologies. Certainly not the Jewish ones. And no, PhDs don't count.
But I am not a doctor (I'll stop capitalizing the word now) and the mystique has led me off the path of common sense and verging on hussiness.
A couple of years ago I came across a doctor on a dating site. He had the good sense to post a photo of himself in a white coat and a stethescope because he didn't have much else going for him personality wise. When he called me, I was smitten, and I stayed a smitten kitten much longer than he deserved. A Pediatrician in a major Pediatric hospital has a cache about it that other professions don't.
So shoot me.
Last year, I found myself in any number of outpatient procedures which required the whole shabang of ass flattering hospital gowns and recovery rooms. I shamelessly flirted with the Anasthesiologists who promptly rendered me unconscious.
While I totally got off on the absolute black out and have found no other way to replicate it without the use of illicit drugs, I have to say to myself, "Good grief." Anasthesiologists knock their patients out. It hardly exudes doctors-without-borders emotion. It reminds me of an Inheritance Lawyer I dated who said he chose the specialty so that his clients wouldn't call him.
One month ago I had surgery. None of this child's play go home in a few hours "procedures." The hard-core stuff.
A month of multiple hospital stays prior to surgery would have been a haven for me in my search, had I not been deathly ill and looking like crap. But leave it to my mom to ask what I was wearing and if I at least put on some makeup...
I mercilessly berated her for her gross insensitivity to my condition, and assured her that a catheter and a bag of urine hanging over my bed would not bring me dates even WITH mascara.
Don't tell her, but I did purchase expensive pyjamas prior to my surgery a month later.
Ah yes. Surgery. Surgeons. The cream of the crop.
They meet you in their clinics in their fine clothes and leather chair and with a heart melting smile reassure you that everything will be fine.
And when they meet you in their crocs and scrubs at 7am on the appointed day and again reassure you that everything will be fine, your naked vulnerability never crosses your mind because they are holding your hand as you count backward from 10.
At your groggiest you are vaguely aware that they are graciously instructing the recovery room staff to give you more morphine. Later in your room, you can't wait for tomorrow when you might have enough strength to change into your new pyjamas before your Surgeon makes his rounds.
And for days and weeks thereafter, you rise above your condition and try to look your best.
But all the Doctors were taken a long time ago. Probably by nurses with pony tails and perky boobs. Yet you tell yourself that this plethora of Doctors are stuck in marriages with bitchy fellow doctors and they just don't have the strength to do anything about it.
The Surgeon has set the bar very high. I don't know how I will recover from this last incident of knowing that nothing less will do.
Then I recall that a comedy writer was as good as it could get, followed by an artist, and yes, even a Doctor here and there crossed my path.
They were all as good as it gets.
For now I want a Doctor.
Or do I just want someone to take care of me?
You do the math.