Is it a Table or a Bed?

Its been awhile since I've last been to a doctor clinic for a visit. It was probably at a pediatrician, in fact. So I guess I may have forgotten how things run around the place. For example, when my name is called from the waiting room, the first thing I am told to do is stand on the scale. My numbers then flash before my eyes mocking me as the nurse jots down the data. I am then led into the office where I am asked to sit on the table with the giant toilet paper looking cover. The nurse proceeds attach various things to me in order to obtain my blood pressure, temperature, and heart rate. All standard procedure, I suppose. What kills me is the next question. "First date of your last period?", she asks me without looking up. I never know the answer to this one. Why on earth would any woman choose to remember anyways? It can be a very traumatic time of the month. "Hmm...I can't seem to recall. But how about the last date of my first period?", I offered in replacement. "Oh, no thank you, dear. The doctor will be with your shortly."

After 25 minutes, still had not arrived shortly. I was due at work in about an hour or so and I called to let them know I would be late. The manager didn't seem to mind. He just cared about a healthy employee so I live up to my full potential on the job. I am thus amazed at a doctors power to stop time in its tracks. There I was sitting on the table in some kind of limbo where I was not being treated and not in the outside world, waiting for Dr. Fisher. For all I know, she could have been helping other patients in need, out shopping for a new dress, attending her son's bar mitzvah, or or pondering over a menu at the new French Bistro. I considering giving her a ring to place an order for myself if she was in fact grabbing lunch. I too was hungry afterall. Instead, I made a mental note to go to medical school. I want to be on charge of all time, also. Just think of the hundreds or thousands of patients sitting on tables, waiting or their doctors to arrive. They have no fear of being late for anything because check-ups are crucial and you absolutely must wait for them. And while my patients are happily waiting, I, as a doctor, can pick up my dry cleaning or catch a matinee.

I contiuned to wait for the doctor as I pulled oumy ipod to listen to some tunes. Then I laid back and closed my eyes. Finally, I got up to cut the lights before returning to my bed, er table.  I heard a light tapping on the door as it was opened. "Jorie?", Dr. Fisher asked. I sat upright when the lights flickered on calling me nack to reality. "Well, it's nice to see you're making yourself at home", she says. Nice joke. But then she gets down to business. I painlessly listen to her discussion of my medical records and medications and why its all relevant to me. Why wouldn't it be? Yet, halfway through the seminar I have a burnig itch to remove myself from the table. I was beginning to feel like a speciman. It should at least be called a bed, not a table. The word alone promotes a certain comfort and familarity. I'm not asking for 200 thread count or anything of that nature. Just a little incentive to come back here. At the very least, we can surely find some replacement for the toilet paper covering, I think. Maybe Charmin or Angel Soft would do the trick. "Any questions?", I am asked.
"Not at all.",\I responded jumping gleefully off the petri dish table.
"See you soon, then."
And then she is off to save another citizen from the world of time and deadlines. I, on the other hand decided to lay back down and relax on my table. After all, I do need to be healthy.

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