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A prescription for doctors visit

O.K. Joke’s over. I always hoped it wouldn’t turn out this way.
It had been gradual at first. But now, it’s more and more often.
“What?” you ask?
I am referring to the way I spend my time. And it seems that more and more of that time is being spent at the doctor lately.
Maybe this is just a phase.
But, in the meantime, if this is the way it is going to be, then I want to suggest some needed improvements that might bring comfort to this new life style..
Let’s do away with the darn scale. That thing is my enemy. It tells lies about me. Nothing of value will get accomplished with me getting on that BEAST.
I think that it would make a terrific coat rack. It could be used in a much more productive way than it is being used right now. At this point, it is a torture step.
I whispered to the young nurse who pointed me to the scale, “You are sending me to the gallows!”
She looked at me with a sideways question mark. “Do you know what the gallows are?” I asked.
“No, I guess I don’t”.
“They are medieval structures where they hung criminals. Sometimes they were erected in the public square.
“Oh, I get it,” she replied, looking at me sideways, wondering if I had all my marbles.
I suggest that the little “broom closet” where the nurse sends you to wait for the doctor needs to be improved a bit. I thoroughly dread being shut up in a little room with only the company of a chair, and THE long dreaded table with those heinous stirrups!
There needs to be music piped in so one can think of something other than needles, stirrups, and little white shirts with slits down the back. A cafe’ latte machine would be nice too. Oh, and an ice cream cone machine — preferably soft serve.
There’s something about the door being closed as well.
I get claustrophobic.
When I accompany someone else to the doctor, I do not react that way. Only, do I react that way when I am THE focus.
Maybe the door could be left ajar? Or IF the doctor could walk through the door in say, three minutes.
Otherwise, I might jump ship — you know, run out the door and down the hall screaming, “EEEEEEE!”
We have very professional, kind, compassionate doctors available to us all. They must hear every complaint, every ache, every excuse, and every self-diagnosis that has ever been drummed up in the mind of man. They do their very best to put us at ease. I feel sorry for them sometimes.
But, I feel discomfort at the doctor’s office. I feel off balance. I say and do silly, air-head things.
I found this story and thought I would pass it on to you. It could happen to any of us women. Maybe even a man under different circumstances!
The woman’s name is Elizabeth Guess and she deserves the credit for the following expose.
“I was due for an appointment with the gynecologist later in the week. Early one morning, I received a call from the doctor’s office to tell me that I had been rescheduled for that morning at 9:30 a.m. I had only just packed everyone off to work and school, and it was already around 8:45 a.m. The trip to his office took about 35 minutes, so I didn’t have any time to spare. As most women do, I like to take a little extra effort over hygiene when making such visits, but this time I wasn’t going to be able to make the full effort.
So, I rushed upstairs, threw off my pajamas, wet the washcloth that was sitting next to the sink, and gave myself a quick wash in that area to make sure I was at least presentable. I threw the washcloth in the clothes basket, donned some clothes, hopped in the car and raced to my appointment.
I was in the waiting room for only a few minutes when I was called in. Knowing the procedure, as I’m sure you do, I hopped up on the table, looked over at the other side of the room and pretended that I was in Paris or some other place a million miles away.
I was a little surprised when the doctor said, “My, we have made an extra effort this morning, haven’t we?” I didn’t respond.
After the appointment, I heaved a sigh of relief and went home. The rest of the day was normal. Some shopping, cleaning, cooking. After school when my daughter was playing, she called out from the bathroom, “Mommy, where’s my washcloth?”
I told her to get another one from the cupboard.
She replied, “No, I need the one that was here by the sink, it had all my glitter and sparkles saved inside it.”
Never going back to that doctor again ……… never!”
Well, probably you are, Elizabeth. You aren’t my age yet. You’ll be back.

“A Woman’s View” is Judi Tabler’s reflection of her experiences and events. She is a wife, mother, writer, teacher, grandmother, and even a great grandmother.