Dr. Muns held her hands out in front of her, palms facing down, and sort of flapped them around in circles. “Since you have such an, errrr, interesting (flap, flap) lifestyle, let’s run one of your regular STD checks.” Dear Dr. Muns, slightly judgmental, but a straight talker. If only I’d have known that was the last time I’d see her.The next time I went in to the hospital, Dr. Muns had gone and my new doctor was on vacation. There was a substitute doctor. Attractive, if you go in for that handsome, rugged, emerald green eyes sort of thing. As he called out my name, his eyes lingered on me. He looked familiar. The penny dropped for both of us at the same moment and I saw his eyes widen in recognition. Tinder.
Through the fog of my current symptoms I was able to smile to myself. It was my first accidental Tinder encounter. This would be fun.
When it was my turn, I flounced into the office and sat myself down. Fates had conspired to give me a host of unrelated ailments in the same one-week period. There was some gratifying waist clutching as he checked my painful kidneys. There was the regular STD check, a sign that I’m a responsible player. He typed up his notes, “Anything else?”
Not wanting to waste the visit, I had written a list which I now checked. Oh god no. No. No. No. Where’s that fucking Dr. Muns and her little grey judgmental eyes when you need her? Oh god why did it have to be him?!
“Ah errr, there’s one more thing. It’s a thing… with my… ummm… the… when I… um… my ass.”
“Ah… okay. Well, come over to the examination table.”
No words out of his mouth could ever have sounded less erotic. “Okay, please undress and curl up into the fetal position.” I stand corrected.
Remember Javier Bardem in that scene from Biutiful? Gentle prodding done, I dressed and sat through the awful post-examination explanation and confirmation of follow-up appointments, while in my head I screamed, “All doctors should be middle-aged women. All doctors should be middle-aged women! MIDDLE-AGED WOMEN!”A week later, I returned for my test results. As I waited amidst the usual collection of crying babies and dozing old people, my nurse came out of the office looking flustered. My doctor had to go home; nursie’s going to ask the doctor next door to take on the patients. The doctor next door comes out to take stock. You know it right? It’s Mothafuckin’ Green Eyes. We go over the results and then, dread in his eyes, he mumbles, “Anything else?”
It’s been that kind of month. “Yes, I’ve got this painful swelling under my jaw. I’m certain it’s just a swollen gland, but could you have a look?” “Okay, on the examination table please.” What? Why? It’s just a little lump in my jaw. Maybe he wants to check the progress on that other thing. Fine. It can’t possibly be worse than the last time.
He leaves the office for a moment and I get on the table. I’m facing the wall and hear the door as he re-enters. There’s a long moment of silence. Then he coughs. “I meant sit on the table.” Unmatch, goddammit! Unmatch!