Open Letter to My Doctors

Dear Doctors:

For the most part, I think you are jerks. Maybe not all of you, just those of you I see on a regular basis. If I had to take my car to a mechanic as many times as I have to come see you, I'd get a new car or a new mechanic. I am stuck with my fickle health. And no matter how many second opinions I get, I seem to be stuck with you. And I hate you for it.

I have done everything you've asked of me. In return I am just asking you to do your job.

I show up early to appointments and wait in a room full of cranky looking sick people. I don't complain when Donna, the vapid "nurse" behind the desk kick starts my dreaded appointment with her painted on smile and dead-behind-the-eyes look. On three separate occasions she has typed my birth date into the computer incorrectly, thus yielding no results for my name in your system. I have gotten into the habit of telling her "01-26-88" instead of saying "January" because I have a feeling that the conversion is too hard for her to do in her head. I don't know why you haven't fired her, but I'm sure it's because she owns her own highlighters or gives really good blowjobs.

When a real nurse takes me back into the exam rooms I make small talk. When they ask "How are you today?" I respond with some frivolous pleasantry because it would be rude to say "I'm here, you moron. Something is terribly wrong with me and instead of living my life I came here to have you poke around all of my orifices. Your lube or mine this time?"

Sometimes you tell me to wear that paper dress and I do so without protesting even though I'm sure you don't need to check my vitals while I'm naked. Once I think you forgot about me back in Exam Room 4 so I walked to the water fountain with my ass hanging out the back. I wasn't thirsty, but I wanted to announce that I was still naked and waiting. It didn't really work because I still sat naked for half an hour on that table with tissue paper over it. However, I think you must have written something in my chart because that's the last time you made me wear the paper dress. I hope it says something like "Patient is not to be naked. Will cause a scene."

I don't self-diagnose because it probably irritates you and will be wrong anyway. I trust that your education and the fancy equipment that you don't let me play with is enough for you to tell me what's wrong with me. Every once in a while you tell me not to eat before an appointment because of some test that you don't explain to me. I stop eating at midnight even though I get an intense craving for an omelet about twenty minutes later. This does not stop you from seeing me at 1:25 when my appointment was for noon. From now on, I'm eating the damn omelet at 12:20 because with your ultra-considerate punctuality I know it won't affect the test.

When you ask me questions about how much I drink or smoke, I tell you. When you ask about my sex life or diet or sleeping patterns I give you detailed answers because even though I think it's weird, I assume that my answers may lead you to discover what freakish disease I have. (I secretly hope it's something so new and freakish that the medical community is forced to name it after me.) So far this has not worked, but when you ask me how many stuffed animals I had in the third grade or how often I eat hummus (often, because it's delicious) I will tell you.

But one time I asked you why I couldn't drink grapefruit juice with a certain medication. You curtly replied "I don't know" and moved on. I think that's a really dick move because I was just trying to be safe and I happen to have the curiosity of a toddler and you could have just told me the answer instead of being a dismissive prick. When I saw you next, you asked me how the iron supplements were working. I replied "I don't know" because I was still holding a grudge, but I know you didn't get it because you just looked at me like I was crazy.

And about the iron supplements - once I told you I had been excessively tired and I couldn't attribute it to insomnia or alcohol. You laughed and said "well, that's unfortunate, huh?" and didn't really address my problem. Three months and some bloodwork later, you told me I was anemic and iron supplements would help me be less tired. Thanks for listening. You owe me three months of good sleep, asshole.

In the short respite that comes after my visit and before the clusterfuck frustrations of the pharmacy, I want one thing and one thing only. A sticker. I want a dinosaur sticker or a Disney Princess sticker. I would prefer a princess riding a dinosaur sticker, but I realize those may only exist in my imagination. I would greatly appreciate it if you would stop judging me when I dig through the sticker box like a frantic junkie on a dumpster dive. Once you told me that the stickers were just for the kids. I told you that my insurance pays for my visits and all the fruitless tests you order for me, I always pay my co-pays and the amount of kickbacks you get from drug companies by recommending their brand of synthetic dope is more than enough to afford buying stickers a tad bit more often. In fact, I'm convinced that the revenue I alone generated last year paid for your ungrateful child's cello lessons or your two week summer vacation in the Poconos.

I don't need an ass-kissing every time I grace your office with my greasy hair, unwashed face and sweatpants. I don't need a TV in the waiting room or every issue of Good Housekeeping from 1993-1996. I just want you to fix me so I don't have to see you again.

Oh, by the way, do you remember the time you found about two dozen penises fashioned from cotton balls, tongue depressors, some crude Sharpie details and medical tape in the drawers of Exam Room 6? Yeah, that was me. That's what you get for being such a dick.