Coincidence & Leprechauns

After last week’s debacle of finding a doctor, I was presented with a real existential dilemma: how much should one actually manscape before seeing a urologist? I’ll spare you my habits, suffice it to say that I’m clean, but my balls were the reason I made the appointment in the first place and I thought it was a legitimate concern whether or not to shave them. I decided against it.

I had only seen one picture of the doctor I chose and it wasn’t great, but it also wasn’t one of those this-is-the-best-I-ever-look shots you see on Myspace. Like mine. He ended up being a good choice; much better looking in person. And cuteness aside, he was really fun and down to earth - exactly what an amateur patient like me needs. Referring to my gonads as “nuts” and “balls” leveled the playing field. And I liked that. Given they’re not often the topic of conversation (to say the least), I found out today just exactly how much I dislike saying the word “testicle” out loud. At least with any seriousness.

I’m not a serious person. I see no point in it.

Unless I’m trying to make a point.

Another debacle was how I was going to keep my scrotum from raisinizing in his cold office. As a rule, doctors keep their thermostats at 59 degrees Fahrenheit. So when I showered beforehand, I made sure the water was scalding. This helped the nether region, but after I showered I couldn’t stop sweating. Since I had to worry about everything under the sun, I also found myself washing every square inch of my body with the Armani shower gel that came with my cologne. You’d think I was getting ready for a date.

Anyway, he was great. And the situation was so non-sexual. I mean he was sitting there on the stool with his face in my junk and I can’t for the life of me recall the feeling of his hand groping me. I’ll bet that’s a quality a lot of heterosexual men enjoy about the doctor. Me, I’m feeling sad and left-out.

While he was groping, he asked if I had fathered any children. I laughed. I laughed and said “no, and I don’t plan to.” His head rolled upward so that he could see my face, and I believe also so that I could see his. That look of confusion. It took me a few seconds to realize he was serious. I thought he was joking. To me, that’s a funny question.

He was the first doctor in eons who didn’t want to put a finger up my ass. And sadly, the only one I would’ve gladly let do it. For those of you who are wondering, I’m fine. And my balls are on the “upper end of large,” he said. I already knew that but a little positive reinforcement never hurts!

After I left his office, I headed towards the elevator while returning a phone call. With the phone to my ear, the door opened and I stepped inside and turned around. There were two other women inside with me, but I didn’t even look at their faces.

The elevator was stopping on the floor directly below us, as one of the women stepped out from behind me and off. As she moved, I caught a brief glimpse of her profile from behind. It was one of those instances when time slows down and a real memory is etched into your brain.

I knew her.

It was Diana, one of my oldest friends. We were extremely close in high school, but didn’t keep in touch afterwards aside from a handful of run-ins in our hometown. But it had been many years. She was in a lab coat. I know that she’s pursuing her Master’s degree and probably in the medical field, but what are the chances of me being in that particular building of that particular hospital on that floor waiting for that elevator with her in it? A dozen worlds colliding all so that we could share a few feet of space, silently, for 10 seconds. A few more seconds and it never would’ve happened. It was one of those times where I felt like fate was telling me that I was exactly where I was supposed to be at exactly the right time. (For what it’s worth, I have a similar feeling about fortune cookies.) I’ve had a few of those lately and I don’t find them all that encouraging because, most of the time, I’d REALLY rather be somewhere else. I don’t believe in coincidence: it happens way too often.

The look on her face was one of brief despair. I suppose it was rude of me to get on the elevator without the slightest hint of acknowledgment of the other people inside, but really if I had noticed her, it would have been different. In fact, I would go so far as to say that my non-acknowledgment of her in the elevator, to her, was probably symbolic of times past. But it just wasn’t so.

And speaking of fortune cookies, here’s the one from my dinner tonight: “The best way to get rid of an enemy is to make him a friend.” Oh great… that’s going to be a lot of work, most notably figuring out who the enemy is.

Discrimination

I’ve never exactly had a primary care physician. Growing up in a lower middle class family, any doctor at the free clinic had to suffice. And suffice it to say that I was raised on a steady stream of amoxicillin in my blood because no matter the symptoms, I was diagnosed with an upper respiratory infection. I could go in with a headache. “You have bronchitis.” I could limp in with a sprained ankle. “Some antibiotics will cure that right up!”

I’ve had some ongoing health issues that needed taking care of, especially since I was 24 before I actually had legitimate, long-term health insurance to help me out with that. Like many without healthcare, I once ended up in the ER of County (Parkland) and decided that the next time I had some sort of issue, instead of going back there I’d kick it old school and down some castor oil and pray. At least I wouldn’t get a staph infection or have to fight my way through an army of psychotic crackheads to find a restroom. “They took my baby! They came and took my baby!”

So, as indecisive as I am, I had no idea exactly how to go about choosing a specialist. All I knew for sure was that I needed a gastroenterologist. Reminiscing about my time at County, I decided that what was really the most important thing to me was a clean, organized environment, and I remembered that my sister had her first child at Presbyterian Hospital of Dallas and I was in awe of its clean air and shiny floors. At Parkland, the germs were as big mosquitos. At Presbyterian, I felt like it was clean. So I wanted a doctor affiliated with Presbyterian Hospital. One problem solved.

Now, on choosing a doctor, here’s what I decided: at some point, there would be some kind of test which, for one reason or another, required a finger up my ass, and I needed a doctor I could be comfortable with to do that. This has the potential for severe trauma; I can’t have some old guy who looks like Larry King violating my person. I don’t care if he’s a professional doctor. I am an amateur patient. I need consoling and candy. Besides, the first doctor who ever did that to me had sharp nails and a bad aim. A moment of silence, if you will…

I found a website listing all of the doctors associated with the aforementioned hospital. It showed all kinds of information, but most importantly, when they got their degrees. 1958? Next! 1995? Jackpot! Young enough to keep from creeping me out and in practice long enough to have experience. And female. I quickly saw the benefits of this and it wasn’t long before I had an appointment. (For what it’s worth, she was an excellent choice.)

Now I’m faced with the dilemma of finding another specialist. I don’t feel exactly as if I can just roll the dice with this one, though. I catch myself thinking “wouldn’t this be so easy if doctors had cards like baseball players?” You know, with stats on the back and a nice, sexy picture on the front. Maybe some gum. (Not really, I have TMJ.)

But they don’t. And all I can do is scavenge the internets for info.

See, I need a urologist. And if you think I’m particular about the backdoor, you should see how I guard the gate. I have to be served. I have to walk away with a smile. If Larry King is my urologist, there is no amount of therapy to bring me back to my current level of crazy. It will be over for me. I’ll be growing coffee cans in the garden and wearing trash bags before you know it.

But if Brad Pitt is my urologist, the most I have to worry about is being judged in some way and I can handle that because I worry about it all the time! I realize this is a flawed way to make a decision, but it’s what comforts me. At least if he’s hot, I’ll have fewer qualms about letting him go downtown. I can pretend that the situation is at least pseudo-sexual, as long as he doesn’t have cold hands.

(If anybody knows any hot urologists in Dallas, let’s talk.)