A New Danger Of The Health Care System (for Men Only)

Beware the waiting room!

Yesterday I had to go to a cardiologist for my annual, 3-year checkup. It was a new clinic, so I arrived a little early, never considering nor realizing the danger inherent in such irresponsible behavior. Unfortunately my paperwork got there ahead of me and I was forced to do nothing but sit and wait for an hour or three until they called me. I couldn't leave the room since I was alone, but they did provide a television for my amusement. (Note: the term 'amusement' comes from an ancient Greek term describing waiting room activity and means 'a'- the lack of or opposite of, and 'muse' - meaning thought.)

So, there I was. No recent (like in the last decade... or two) dogeared and tattered magazines with articles of such astonishing things like the fact that unprotected sex often leads to children, except in the case of unprotected sex with crocodiles, which leads to medical malpractice lawyers, or how a 50-year love affair with bacon invariably leads to higher education for the children of cardiologists. No other geezers with whom to strike up a conversation about the upwardly spiraling price of asparagus or to discretely compare scars like the one stretching from my Adam's apple to my... ankle. No hard liquor in the water dispenser to dull the excitement of anticipation at the thought of new medical experimentation, or as they call it on insurance denial forms, 'procedures'. Just me and the television. The blaringly loud television. The television tuned permanently and securely to a morning lady's show...

Naturally, all the chairs were arranged such that anyone in the room had to be seated directly in front of the television, presumably staring and nodding like so many brain-dead zombies watching a documentary about human dismemberment using only one's Cuisinart and a butter knife. I took a seat.

After about half an hour, I began to notice a small puddle forming around my feet. Since it was March, I naturally assumed that some snow was melting from my shoes. Since it was Idaho, I also assumed that some snow was melting from my double layer of underclothes which had not seen sunshine since Thanksgiving. However, after another fifteen minutes I realized the puddle was growing and it got the best of my natural inquisitiveness. Also, it was beginning to arouse my concern over personal bladder control. So, as I'm sure any reasonable man would do, I laboriously (remember the two layers of long johns?) leaned over and stuck a finger in the puddle. After a tentative taste test, I was horrified to realize that the puddle was liquified intelligence, slowly leaving my brain, migrating through the mazes of my bodily pathways, and spreading out with a slight oil-sheen on the linoleum floor of the waiting room.

I was staring at the fluid escaping my body in abject wonderment and with cold fear seizing my vocal cords like the approach of a hoard of alien body snatchers, each carrying a butterknife and a Cuisinart. Then the commercial for a modern feminine hygiene product which promised to make the user not only have the aroma of a spring rain in a primeval pine forest, but also to attract a number of lumberjacks who all looked like Brad Pitt, came to an end and normal programming returned to the television. Hoody and Hoo Hoo again gained my undivided attention and hypnotically entranced me with their discussion of the latest amazing device for the reduction of body fat while simultaneously lifting my face, firming my breasts and curing my toenail fungus. I returned to my upright position and resumed the docile and lackadaisical facial expression so natural to fly fishermen in winter.

Sometime in the indeterminate future, a nice young lady called my name and as I shuffled in soggy and dripping footwear toward the door to the exam area, I marveled at the shiny knob near its edge and tried to remember the proper operating procedure for such a complicated device.