American Pie: Trial By Waiting Room
...After a few perfunctory questions, the nurse swept out, saying over her shoulder, “Doctor will be in soon.” How can she sleep at night, I thought, after telling bare-faced lies all day, everyday. “Soon” is such an infinitely elastic term....
John Merchant contends with the anxious boredom of waiting, and waiting, before submitting to the surgeon's knife.
My column dated June 1, 2011, talked about my budding relationship with dermatology. The account ended with a diagnosis of squamous tissue on my nose that would have to be removed surgically. The plan was to take off the offending piece, submit it to an on-site pathologist who would determine whether all of the squamousness (my word) had been removed. If not, the good doctor would have a second whack. http://www.openwriting.com/archives/2011/06/by_the_skinny_s_1.php#more
The plan was presented with the dire warning that I could be on the premises for around 4 hours while the pathologist was poring over his/her microscope. I just hoped there’d be enough magazines in the waiting room to keep me occupied.
They have TV, but it’s usually tuned to a channel that, aesthetically and politically, is light years removed from my own preferences, and I haven’t yet had the courage to ask if the other patients would mind if I changed it. People who watch that particular channel have a tendency to be ferocious, and fond of guns.
The Day dawned hot and humid; like any other day in Florida this time of year. In contrast, the waiting room could have kept dead meat fresh for a month. There were only two people ahead of me, but I knew from experience that it would be an hour or so before I was led into the inner sanctum. I should have brought a sweater.
As I surveyed the magazine rack my heart sank. It was going to be a choice between “Horse and Rider,” which I don’t, “Sports Illustrated,” which also I don’t, or any number of outdated “Home and Beauty” magazines, which also I usually don’t unless I have to, but today I would have to.
After half an hour, my head was buzzing with “Ten Quick Recipes to Keep Your Family Healthy and Happy;” “Beauty Treatments Made From Stuff Everyone Has in Their Kitchen;” and the latest escapades of the Brangelinas. I think they had just dropped into an orphanage in Burundi, or Pago Pago, or one of those places.
But wait, hadn’t I read that last year? As old as the magazines were, this one couldn’t be that much out of date. And it wasn’t. I guess the two of them are just drawn to orphanages in remote places. I’ll bet some of the US orphanage kids must feel left out.
Pretty soon my head and knees were aching from the cold, and my eyes were tearing. I put down the magazine and reluctantly turned to the TV. Just as I expected, it was a bunch of “experts” ranting about the government, speaking with great authority about matters they couldn’t possibly have understood. In my opinion, anyone who claims to understand the current economic crisis, and to know what to do about it, is delusional.
“John?” Thank god, I was finally being called to higher things. I looked hastily around the other patients, hoping against hope that I was the only John in the room. Even though it relieved some of my tension to be finally sitting in the treatment room, I knew the trial wasn’t over.
After a few perfunctory questions, the nurse swept out, saying over her shoulder, “Doctor will be in soon.” How can she sleep at night, I thought, after telling bare-faced lies all day, everyday. “Soon” is such an infinitely elastic term.
Though it felt good to be one step nearer my release, 30 minutes waiting in a treatment chair seems like forever. The chair is designed for the convenience of the doctor, not the comfort of the patient. Suddenly, there he was; breezy and bright and confident, dressed in bright blue scrubs – all good signs I thought.
A couple of dabs of topical anesthetic, and a wipe of iodine. “A pinch and a burn” followed by a remote digging sensation, and there was a piece of my nose dangling from tiny forceps. Quite an anticlimax after all the waiting. I wondered idly what would happen if he dropped my errant nosepiece.
A quick slap of plaster and I was back in the refrigerarium to wait for the verdict. The pundits, or was it another group, were still dismantling the government on the TV, but thankfully I still had another couple of magazines to go: “Medicine Today” and “Retirement Monthly.” Racy stuff. I looked around furtively to see who might be watching which one I took. Not a problem. They were all smiling and nodding agreement at the TV.
The next 90 minutes passed relatively quickly. In the meantime I had learned enough medical terminology to pass the MD exam. Back in the treatment room, Doctor was grinning. “Got it all,” he beamed. “Just a few sutures and we’ll have you out of here in no time.” His suturing would have done justice to the finest Paris couture house.
A week later I was back to have the sutures removed. Other than a rosy glow that a real boozer would have been proud of, the old conk looked pretty much like the one I had come to love. I’ll be happy to go back if I have to, but next time I‘m taking my “30 Below” Down Jacket and my lap top.
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