Eric Goes To The Doctor

Do you go to the doctor every year for a checkup? I don’t. Or rather, I didn’t. As of early May 2008, it had been almost nine full years since I’d been to a general practitioner for a routine exam. My reasons for not getting annual checkups, despite having had them for 16 consecutive years, were numerous and compelling.

1. I generally felt like a healthy person.
2. My mom stopped making the appointments for me, and I am a lazy and ineffective individual without such assistance.
3. Who wants to co-pay $10? Not this guy, that’s for sure.
4. I am averse to doctors and medication, preferring to let my body build its own immunities naturally.

Nonetheless, after nine years, self-doubt had begun to creep in. People who knew of my long layoff were nagging me to get a checkup. Lipitor ads were playing every 10 minutes on TV, and my dad’s high cholesterol only added to my concerns (“Cholesterol can come from fettuccine alfredo, but it can ALSO come from your Uncle Alfredo!”). So I bit the bullet and called one of the closest doctors in my coverage network, a (name changed) Dr. Mahmoud Ayoub. What nationality was this guy? Was he going to have a lot of facial hair and ban me from eating pork? This was off to a dubious start, but at least his office was really close by. I scheduled a physical with the nice lady on the phone, who, based on my admittedly limited knowledge, did not sound like a jihadist.

Visit 1 of 2: Bloodwork

The first appointment was just to get my insurance information, blood and urine samples, and run some on-the-spot tests. I walked in and was greeted by a short bald man. A short bald man who had the exact same voice as the nice non-jihad lady who made my appointment.

Ohhhh, okay, got it. Nah, nah, it’s totally cool man, nothing wrong with that.

I sit down to fill out some insurance paperwork, which I whiz through in no time. I might have just set the office’s insurance paperwork all-time record. I proudly smile to myself, because I am a complete idiot. Looking around for a magazine to read, I spot an Elle Magazine and a U.S. News and World Report. Lame. I continued searching. I find a Radar magazine, a local gay and lesbian newspaper, and some other magazine with a dorky, yet shirtless Asian guy holding 17 different forms of sporting equipment under the tagline “Big Gay Summer Sports Spectacular”. My confidence that Dr. Mahmoud Ayoub is something short of a raging Islamic fundamentalist continues to grow.

My name gets called, and I am directed down the main hallway into a patient room. The walls of the hallway are literally jam-packed with personalized autographed photos from every “diva” beloved by the flamboyant. Cher, Madonna, Celine Dion, Janet Jackson, Mariah Carey. Maybe Bette Midler. (An aside: my indifferent-yet-mildly-negative stance on Bette Midler changed on a recent visit to Vegas, where a Bette Midler impersonator at the Imperial Palace inexplicably dealt me 4 blackjacks and two 20s in 7 hands.)

After a moment, a medical assistant comes in to start the physical. “How tall are you?”

I am slightly flummoxed. I have not been measured since age 16, and can’t say with 100% confidence how tall I am. “Well, see, when I was 16, I measured 6’2”, and I personally think I’m probably the same height, especially since I wear the same length pants. After age 17, a lot of people kept telling me I got taller, but I think maybe that’s just better posture on my part. But I could be 6’3”, it’s possible.”
“So…you don’t know how tall you are?”
“Well, I mean, no...but I know within a reasonable range.”
“Uhh…okay, I’m just going to put down 6’2” and a half.”
“Can you just measure me?”
“We don’t do that here.”
“What, really?”
“Well, this is a general practitioners’ office. Most of our patients already know how tall they are.”
“Oh. I see.” Isn’t a doctor’s office supposed to be able to measure you? I bet this guy was lying. We were already off to a poor start.

“So when did you last have a checkup?”
“Almost 9 years ago. I like to build my own immunities naturally.”
“Uhh…okay.”
“That works, right?”
“I mean, it could.” Whatever. This guy’s not even a real doctor. I’m not taking any eye-rolls from this jackass.

I proceed to get weighed, give blood and urine samples, and get some kind of body fat measurement (though they don’t tell me the results). Then an EKG. (Holy shit! An EKG? Is this normal? They can’t measure how tall I am but want to give me an EKG? Am I dying? What’s happening here? Fortunately I say nothing, have the EKG, and continue to live.) And then – I’m done. That’s it.

As I walk back to the lobby to schedule my “actual” physical, it occurs to me that I still haven’t met the doctor. I now notice that he is also a photographer, and the lobby is selling postcards of city and nature shots he’s taken all around the world. People always tell me not to have my tailoring done by a dry cleaner – you want your tailor to be only a tailor. I wonder if this also applies to doctors. Is it bad if your doctor is also an amateur photographer and postcard creator? I schedule the return visit for the following week, and head in to work.

It is safe to say at this point, my curiosity about my bearded raging Islamic fundamentalist/flamboyantly homosexual/artistically entrepreneurial doctor has reached an all-time high.

On to Part 2...