No Uranus Jokes. I promise.
My appointment with the gastroenterologist was today, and so was my final exam. I'll start with the butt doctor.
As I have said, I was afraid that he was going to tell me he needed to stick a camera up my butt to find out what was wrong, and I went to this appointment mentally prepared for him to tell me to come back in two weeks for said butt invasion. Fortunately, he didn't. Yet.
This doctor, Dr. Greenwold, is at least 70 years old, and he did things a little differently than I'm used to. What I'm used to is being lead into an exam room by a nurse who then takes my blood pressure, temperature, weight, and pulse without smiling or speaking, then walks out saying, "He'll be right in," as she slams my chart into the plastic box on the door and slams the door behind her. She's always a liar, too, because he never comes right in. It's always at least another 30 minutes of waiting. When he does come in, he asks what's wrong, and I'm able to get half a sentence out before he has already taken a stab at diagnosing me and handed me a prescription for something. If I need any explanation, I have to tackle him to the ground and beat it out of him before he swooshes right out the door in his long lab coat, forty seconds after he walked in.
Dr. Greenwold is way better than that. First, the friendly nurse came in and did all the stuff the bitchy nurses do, except that she smiled and made conversation and didn't rush. She even let me take my shoes off to be weighed, and according to their scale I am about 10 pounds lighter today than I was at the doctor this past Saturday, a whopping five days ago. My shoes don't weigh 10 pounds, and I certainly haven't lost 10 pounds this week. The stupid nurse from last week was in a hurry and didn't give the thing time to stop wobbling before she overestimated my weight and committed the insult to paper with permanent ink. After Nurse Friendly finished telling me that all of my vitals were normal, she said that Dr. Greenwold would look at my medical history, and that I would then meet with him in his office. I waited in the exam room for him to review my stuff.
About ten minutes after the nurse left, a tall, old man came to the door and introduced himself. He took me across the hallway to his cushy office, and I sat in a chair right next to his desk. He spent about thirty minutes asking me questions about my semicolon and the pain that goes with it, then he spent more time asking me about my diet. His voice was wobbly in that old man way, and he spoke very slowly and deliberately. It was comforting.
Well, in the end he decided that my colon hates me because I don't love it enough, or something, and he thinks the pain is due to spasms. He gave me a list of things that I have to eat every day, like three slices of wheat bread, two pieces of fruit, three servings of veggies, and some fiber supplement that I haven't tried yet but am certain is going to taste like chalk. I have to go back in a month, and if the pain is gone, I'm good to go. If not, then he's going to give me some medicine to stop the spasms. I was relieved that the prospect of an anal probe wasn't even discussed as a future possibility. After all that, he finally examined me in an exam room, but there wasn't much to it. Just some mashing and pressing and listening. The usual.
As I was leaving, I thought to myself This guy is worth every penny. Then I got the total. Are you ready? The total charge is $789.76.
Granted, he did spend a lot of time with me instead of pushing me through like a head of cattle and stamping some generic diagnosis down and then moving on to the next cow, but $800??? That's with no tests, labs, etc. Thank God we have insurance. I think I should've become a doctor.
As for the final exam, there's not much to say. I had to write ten pages by hand, and I have never felt a hand cramp so severe. By the time I was done, some of my letters didn't look like letters. It was like my hand just started doing what it wanted to do. I got through it. My class is over. I expect to get my grade in a week or two.
When I get my A in the mail and my phone call about the job, my anus and I can breathe a collective sigh of relief.
As I have said, I was afraid that he was going to tell me he needed to stick a camera up my butt to find out what was wrong, and I went to this appointment mentally prepared for him to tell me to come back in two weeks for said butt invasion. Fortunately, he didn't. Yet.
This doctor, Dr. Greenwold, is at least 70 years old, and he did things a little differently than I'm used to. What I'm used to is being lead into an exam room by a nurse who then takes my blood pressure, temperature, weight, and pulse without smiling or speaking, then walks out saying, "He'll be right in," as she slams my chart into the plastic box on the door and slams the door behind her. She's always a liar, too, because he never comes right in. It's always at least another 30 minutes of waiting. When he does come in, he asks what's wrong, and I'm able to get half a sentence out before he has already taken a stab at diagnosing me and handed me a prescription for something. If I need any explanation, I have to tackle him to the ground and beat it out of him before he swooshes right out the door in his long lab coat, forty seconds after he walked in.
Dr. Greenwold is way better than that. First, the friendly nurse came in and did all the stuff the bitchy nurses do, except that she smiled and made conversation and didn't rush. She even let me take my shoes off to be weighed, and according to their scale I am about 10 pounds lighter today than I was at the doctor this past Saturday, a whopping five days ago. My shoes don't weigh 10 pounds, and I certainly haven't lost 10 pounds this week. The stupid nurse from last week was in a hurry and didn't give the thing time to stop wobbling before she overestimated my weight and committed the insult to paper with permanent ink. After Nurse Friendly finished telling me that all of my vitals were normal, she said that Dr. Greenwold would look at my medical history, and that I would then meet with him in his office. I waited in the exam room for him to review my stuff.
About ten minutes after the nurse left, a tall, old man came to the door and introduced himself. He took me across the hallway to his cushy office, and I sat in a chair right next to his desk. He spent about thirty minutes asking me questions about my semicolon and the pain that goes with it, then he spent more time asking me about my diet. His voice was wobbly in that old man way, and he spoke very slowly and deliberately. It was comforting.
Well, in the end he decided that my colon hates me because I don't love it enough, or something, and he thinks the pain is due to spasms. He gave me a list of things that I have to eat every day, like three slices of wheat bread, two pieces of fruit, three servings of veggies, and some fiber supplement that I haven't tried yet but am certain is going to taste like chalk. I have to go back in a month, and if the pain is gone, I'm good to go. If not, then he's going to give me some medicine to stop the spasms. I was relieved that the prospect of an anal probe wasn't even discussed as a future possibility. After all that, he finally examined me in an exam room, but there wasn't much to it. Just some mashing and pressing and listening. The usual.
As I was leaving, I thought to myself This guy is worth every penny. Then I got the total. Are you ready? The total charge is $789.76.
Granted, he did spend a lot of time with me instead of pushing me through like a head of cattle and stamping some generic diagnosis down and then moving on to the next cow, but $800??? That's with no tests, labs, etc. Thank God we have insurance. I think I should've become a doctor.
As for the final exam, there's not much to say. I had to write ten pages by hand, and I have never felt a hand cramp so severe. By the time I was done, some of my letters didn't look like letters. It was like my hand just started doing what it wanted to do. I got through it. My class is over. I expect to get my grade in a week or two.
When I get my A in the mail and my phone call about the job, my anus and I can breathe a collective sigh of relief.
I had to do that in a Crime History class I took - the teacher's name was Dr. Sicko. I kid you not. He pronounced it Dr. SEEKO, but I firmly believe it should be pronounced as written. He came in one night a little late and apologized because he had been reading a book and lost track of time. then, ye proceeded to explain the premise of the book: There would be fewer divorces if wives gave more head. Again, I kid you not. Needless to say, he was single, a oddly shaped gnome of a man, probably never found anyone to give him head, wife or not.
By the time I got through his final, I know my handwriting was probably that of a three year old. I did get an A in the class, though.
And, no, I didn't offer to test the theory in the book to get it. :o
Posted by
Anonymous |
6:39 PM
Fewer men might ask for divorces, but I'm thinking at least as many women would hit the road.
That guy sounds like a seeko.
Posted by
Mommy Needs a Xanax |
7:38 PM
$789.76!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Was he gold-plated?
Posted by
Hillbilly Mom |
8:44 PM