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Destinations, Dreams and Dogs - International adventure with a fast-track family (& dogs) of Old World values, adopting the Russian-Italian-American good life on the go…!

At The Doctors’ Office

IMG_0594Going to the doctor is scary enough, whether for a routine exam or something more serious. But for semi-obsessive women like myself, a myriad of madcap possibilities exist. I say women, not that I don’t have a loyal male readership, but, as most of us know, men won’t go to the doctor unless they are near death’s doorstep.

So I arrive in dark shades lest someone recognize me and wonder, “What’s wrong with her?” And of course, a number of these issues may have to do with what kind of doctor you’re going to see: a psychiatrist or infectious diseases physician might be higher on the embarrassment scale than say, a podiatrist or dermatologist…. Then again, in some circles, the stranger the doctor, the more panache it carries for you, lol.

What I’ve noticed is that there appears to be a direct correlation between the price of the doctor and the crowdedness of the waiting room. One pays for privacy, pure and simple. I know all about the back entrance, the private elevator and the waiting limo or town car.

Sure enough, I arrive and all is an oasis of calm and quiet. Not another patient in the place. They’re IMG_0593there, but just not coming or going at the same time as moi. Perfect. The white walls have a wavy, textured, hip look happening with not too many right angles. It’s cool and chic and non-threatening for those who would rather avoid medical procedures.

Entering the examining room, I’m up on a white leather table/chair in no time, legs extended straight out. I feel like a small child in oversized furniture. How long till my legs go numb? My high heels seem so close to the door that I wonder if the doctor will be impaled on them the second she squeezes in the door.

Who designed this place?

I glance around. A couple of assistants said they’d be right back with the doctor. That was a while ago. I sit, wondering if I should hot off the table, run over to the chair where my purse perches and get my book-? No, probably the second I moved in that direction, the door would open. And we couldn’t have that— the patient escaping off the table.

IMG_4679Another five minutes pass and I consider closing my eyes. But that might be worse to have a nodding-off patient who begins to possibly drool.

My mouth feels dry. Should I make a dash to my bag for a breath mint? Were there any Rules of Patient Propriety that prohibited such a move? I decide to go for it, every minute that passed telling me that the doctor was closer to imminent arrival….

I grab the mint, my hands shaking, hoping that I won’t spill the whole tin on the office floor. Imagine the doctor striding in, her own high heels skidding across the littered floor like stepping on a banana peel. Instead, I’m able to get the blood circulating through my numb legs once again before hopping back on the table, a happy camper.

Eventually the doc shows up and we have a good, albeit painful appointment. I feel giddy and silly and serious, but I survive. There are hushed voices behind closed doors, but I pass no one in the swank reception area. No shared germs, no questions, no conversation… so I end up chatting with the staff, instead.


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