I’m stuck, shifting in this plastic chair in the doctor’s waiting room, listening to a muzak version of the Bee Gees serenading me. Auntie M stares at my bony knees in loose-fitting jeans, then up at my disheveled hair.
“Es you okay? You looks like a homeless pirate.”
I shrug. “I’m fine.”
Lara confers with her in Spanish, then Auntie M nods at me sympathetically.
“Es it your eh-stomach?”
“It’s not that bad. . .”
“You knows, I’ve been talkings to Lara. . .”
Oh Christ. Each time Auntie M starts that sentence I find myself cast in a conspiracy theory that would rival an epic Alex Jones rant about unseen Zapruder footage of JFK, Elvis flying suicide planes into the Twin Towers on 9/11, all narrated by the lost eighteen minutes of the Nixon Tapes found floating in the Gulf of Tonkin.
In the elevator up to the doctor’s office, Lara confesses to Auntie M about the good seventy-plus deadly diseases she thinks I just might have: IBS, all flavors of colon cancer, GERD, Cystic fibrosis, the onset of Cantu Syndrome, Chiggers, a Peptic Ulcer, Hantavirus, Jejunal Atresia, Whipple Disease, Hairy Black Tongue, Intestinal Pseudo-Obstruction. And so on. Finally, Lara convinces Auntie M that I need to see Lara’s doctor.
Once we hit the seventh-floor waiting room, Lara plunks down onto the faux-leather couch and tells Auntie M I look tense and to relax. This is her best doctor, whom she visits at least twice a week to stave off her unrelenting bouts of hypochondria.
Then she starts into a diatribe worthy of the Wailing Wall about her ultimate nightmare: being trapped in a high-rise building during a major earthquake.
I saunter over to inspect a window to jump out of just as a lanky nurse with a clipboard appears. “¿Uh. . . Senor Dung?”
Snickers from Auntie M and Lara.
“Dung is my. . . Doug is my first name.”
She snatches the ball-point pen nestled behind her ear, scratches out a line in the paperwork, then gestures towards the open office door.
“Buena suerte.” Lara and Auntie M give two big, cheery thumbs up for the moment of truth.
The doctor is a short, balding, affable man who immediately puts me at ease. “So, Auntie M says you’ve lost some weight and you mumble to yourself? Is this true?”
Should I spill the beans? “Yeah.”
Chuckling, he pulls out a clipboard while flicking his pen. “What was that?”
I sigh. “Ahem, I said that sounds about right.”
He shakes his head, smile evaporating. “Well, do you answer yourself back?”
“No.” I tap at the tile floor with my feet. “Not usually.”
“Ah, then there’s nothing to worry about.” He takes one peep at my ‘Wooden Spoon Survivor’ T-shirt and khaki boonie hat, asks my age, then politely broaches whether I’m aware of any undiagnosed severe retardation in my family history.
“I don’t think so.”
His concerned look warms to a pleasant smile. “Just thought I’d ask. No offense.”
“None taken. And the buzzing.”
“Buzzing?”
“In my ears. I’ve always had it, but it seems to be getting louder. Sometimes it’s all I can hear at night.”
“Really?” He pulls a water pistol-shaped flashlight with a tapered barrel. “Turn your head to the side, please.”
I do and he shoves it into my ear for a good look. “So, your tinnitus keeps you up at night, eh?”
“Yeah.”
“Other side. Well, that could explain a lot right there. Lack of sleep.”
“Weird dreams.”
“Wet dreams?”
“I said weird dreams.”
“Ah. See, you are mumbling. Raise your shirt, please.”
“Oh!”
My belly skin forms goosebumps as he slides the ice-cold stethoscope around while my innards moan like an ill-tempered howler monkey.
He gives me a thumbs up. “Besides, it’s amazing what a positive attitude can do. My gardener’s quite the slow thinker, but I’d bet a million Turkish Lira he trims hedges better than you.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You don’t look very handy. That’s all.” He leans in and scowls. “Oh!”
“What?”
“Shhhhhhh. Boy, you’re really missing out on some gastronautical awesomeness, my friend. Madam Tusan, an impeccable chifa owned by Gaston Acurio; Bistecca, a buffet-style pasta grill — ”
“Am I okay?”
“Shhhhhhh! Cala, oceanside fine dining, listening to the waves suck back through the rocks; Central, a Michelin-rated restaurant that’s like eating through a 16-course Chihuly exhibit.”
“Sounds nice, but what’s the diagnosis, Doc?”
With an accommodating smile, he rips off a paper sheet from his clipboard and hands it to me. “The verdict is that you’re hungry.” He sneaks a glance at his watch. “Come to think of it, I’m hungry, too.”
The paper seems official, typed in both Spanish and English:
‘HURT FEELINGS REPORT’
After reading through a few sections about my personal history and injury data, there’s a list of unchecked boxes:
PART IV — REASON FOR FILING THIS REPORT (Mark all the apply):
I am thin skinned
I am a wimp
I am a crybaby
I want my mommy
Someone needs to fix my problems
My feelings are easily hurt
I didn’t sign on for this
I was told that I am not competent
the weather is too cold
the weather is too hot
the weather is too dry
the weather is too wet
ALL OF THE ABOVE AND MORE
My doctor’s tone is pleasant, yet firm. “You gotta get out there and enjoy life, son. Take some risks. And if you wind up blowing out your O ring. . .” he grabs a bottle of knock-off Pepto-Bismol, passes it to me and shrugs. “Maybe try some chicken soup for a few days.”
He orders a pizza on his cell phone, then listens patiently as Lara launches into an hour-and-a-half-long seance over her litany of ailments. To this day, Lara still thinks I’m in denial about suffering from Munchausen Syndrome.
Omg you are keeping us all in suspense too long! What toppings did the doctor order?
As I read the Bee Gees, they were on my radio. Must buy a lottery today!