Holy Christ! It should be disclosed to patients beforehand when the doctor that is about to examine you is such a sublime expression of manhood that everything you have mentally rehearsed about the origin and subtle nuances of your condition goes right out the window when he walks in and you are rendered incapable of comprehending anything that comes out of his mouth for the next ten minutes.
But let me preface this with what happened before the blue-eyed, blond-haired, Swiss godman of white chocolate appeared before me.....
The nurse escorts me to an examining room and hands me a pair of drawstring shorts instructing me to put them on and the doctor will be with me shortly. She leaves and I change into the drawstring shorts. I sit down on the examining table taking in the black and white photos hanging on the walls of a local covered bridge . Oh cool, I think to myself, he supports local artists. Then my eyes wander down to my legs. My dry, white and HOLY MOTHER OF GOD! HOW LONG HAS IT BEEN SINCE I'VE SHAVED MY LEGS legs?!?! I hop off the examining table and pace the small room, wishing like hell there was a window I could escape through. Why didn't I shave my legs this morning? Or at least this week? I sit in a chair next to the table and drape my pants over my white, hairy legs. Then I think maybe I should sit on the swivel stool, maybe the swivel stool will save me. But it doesn't so I move back to the chair and sit there launching into a minor panic attack, trying to figure out what to do.
But there's no hiding these gams in this harsh medical room light. I ponder taking off the shorts and putting my pants back on. But what if he walks in right as I'm changing!?! Then he'll see my blindingly white thighs, too! I decide not to risk it and then I freak out and decide I have to risk it or I just can't go on. I rip off the drawstring shorts as fast as I can, praying to Jesus the doctor doesn't walk in while I'm in the act. I pull my pants back on with lightning speed and quickly sit back down on the chair like nothing's happened. I start to calm down and then I look over and there's the drawstring shorts balled up on the chair beside me! They're evidence. They must be hidden so I can pretend the shorts were never offered to me in the first place. I shove them behind the chair. But what if he drops his pen and sees the shorts? Surely he'll confront me! I pick up the shorts and try to think of another hiding place. I stuff them in a drawer and sit back down. What if he opens the drawer? I jump up and retrieve them, certain that the doctor is going to enter the room at any moment, see me holding the shorts and ask accusingly, "Why haven't you put on the shorts my nurse instructed you to wear?" As a last resort I shove them in my purse and sit back down in the chair. I roll my shoulders, close my eyes and try to breathe deeply and look innocent.
Then he walks in and introduces himself. His face is like a vision of Christ on Mt. Tabor, it's radiance cannot be beheld. My brain slides out of my jaw like drool from a teething baby's mouth.
He hangs the x-ray of my hip on the light box on the wall and I hear nothing but a hollow whirling sound in my head while he presumably explains what the x-ray has revealed. Then he asks me to lie down on the examining table. I do as he says and he asks me to unbutton my pants and pull them down a bit. I stare at the ceiling because looking directly into this man's face makes things even worse. I'm pretty sure this is where the trouble began in the first place. My hands are shaking and I'm fumbling with the zipper. I pull my pants down as little as possible and he moves in with his large, warm hands and pulls them down a little more. "Show me where it hurts the most," he asks softly. Speechless, I move my hand in a diagonal motion from my right hip bone to my pelvic bone. "Does it hurt here?" he asks as he pushes his fingers into the area between my hip and my lady parts. I try to think, "Does this hurt? It used to hurt, it used to hurt a lot but now I'm confused, nothing seems to hurt now." He presses his hand into every inch of the area of concern, asking each time, "Does it hurt here? How about here?" But the damn engineer who conducts the lines of pain transmission in my brain has apparently abandoned his post and is running around in circles on his tippy toes, giggling like a gay man at an all-nude firemen's ball.
After much pressing and prodding and me giving answers like "Yeah, I think that hurts" or "I'm not sure if that hurts or not," he gives up and refers me to another specialist. I'll be sure to shave my legs next time.
P.S. Don't tell the Taliban about this. You know how they get.