A Trip to Italy Leads to a Trip to the Doctor

I went to see my GI on Wednesday. My appointment was originally for 5:45, but the nurse called earlier in the day and asked if I could change it to 5:15. Sure, no problem.

I arrived at the office fairly promptly at 5:16. Then I sat and waited. I mean, I appreciated the extra time I had to read an appropriately nasty article about Caitlin Flanagan and her lying ways in Elle, but I was seriously getting pissed. At 5:45, the time of my original appointment, I asked the nurse what the fuck was going on. (Of course, my actual question was “How much longer is Dr. ShitFixer going to be?” in a very sweet voice.) “He’ll be right with you, although there is another patient ahead of you.” Uh huh. I see. I figured that meant he would not see me until about 6:15. Well, thanks for hauling my ass in 30 minutes earlier so that I could wait for 60 minutes instead of 30 minutes. How did they know that I had nothing better to do with my time? They must be psychics.

(You know how doctors always have policies saying that if you cancel an appointment within 24 hours of the appointment, they get to charge you some unreasonable amount of money? I have often considered sending a bill to them if they cancel on me within 24 hours of my appointment. It’s only fair. I also wouldn’t mind figuring out how much money I make on an hourly basis and charging them for my waiting time if I have to wait more than 15 minutes.)

At any rate, the doctor came in at 6:08. He asked me if I was writing in my journal. I thought it would not be a good idea to mention that I was writing about how fucking pissed off I was that I did them a favor and came in early, only to wait 53 fucking minutes for my 10 minutes with him, so I said that I was making some notes for my blog. I’m slightly disappointed that he didn’t ask what my blog was about, because I think he might have found the Campaign for Unshaved Snatch amusing. On the other hand, I also would not be able to bitch about him in this post.

Anyway, I told him that my shit logs were coming back. He asked if I had any other symptoms. I mentioned that I had developed a rash on my arm when I was in Italy. He grabbed my arm and eyed it. “You might have scabies,” he calmly told me. (Motherfucker! Can you believe that shit? ) “Could it be eczema?” I inquired. My bubbe has eczema. “Maybe,” he said. He wrote me a scrip for some ointment that I am supposed to smear on myself before I go to bed and then wash it off in the AM. If that stops the itching, then it was scabies. However if it does not stop the itching, I should see a dermatologist. Not that I don’t trust him, but I think I would rather see the dermatologist before I smear what is essentially insecticide all over myself and sleep in it. In fact, I’ll make an appointment ASAP...