Doctor Done

Two stories about a trip to the doctors office.

Ceahorse’s

Inheritance

I remember the day, like it was yesterday. The day I went to him, Dr. Faruk changed my life. Since that day, things have been clearer, entertainment has been more enjoyable, problems have been more welcomed, and friends more abundant. And now, there is also Sarah, my beautiful, intelligent, striving girlfriend.

However, things were not always this way. Before that day, I had problems. I don’t quite remember much of those days, but I do remember that they were not good.

On the day, I walked into his office. A friend of a friend had setup the appointment. I had taken the bus. I waited for quite a while, not sure but to think of it now, it was probably around 45 minutes.

In his office, asked me to sit in a chair. He sat behind a huge wooden table. His hands folded together and slightly tilted backwards in his chair. He asked me what my problem was.

I remember I started the meeting off with a lie. “It’s about my son. He can’t keep up.”

He was quick to interrupt when I paused for a breath. “Sir, you know that by law I’m not allowed to do work on minors, even with the parent’s or guardian’s full consent. I’d loose my licence”

I thought about it, and now that I think about it, he called my bluff; I decided to spill the beans. “Ok…Ok… It’s not my son. Really, I aint gots no son. No wife even. No life much good for nothing.”

He was calm and spoke in a reassuring way. “Mr. Reed, well then you’ve come to the right place. I’m sure we can turn everything around for you. But I do need some specifics. What exactly is or are your problems?”

“I’s seems to not remember much. Learning’s very hard for me. And my friends never seem to say things I can understand.” I remember the effect that those words had on me. It was like rifling through a stack of rusty pins, looking for a needle with a broken thread eye. I was too idiotic to feel shame.

“Well, I think I know what to do, but let’s make sure.”

He picked up the phone and called someone, and ordered me up a diagnosis.

The tests were quite similar to an IQ test. Questions about trains and passengers, speed and logic. I don’t remember any specific examples, but I do remember how hard they were at that time. I’d love to be given that test now.

After the tests, I was back in the office and he laid it out for me.

“You problem falls in the temporal lobes, as does it for most of our clients. In this area of the brain most of your memories are manipulated. However, there is also a large deficiency in the frontal lobe, where your interaction skills come from.”

At the time, all I heard was “blah, blah, blah” But now I understand the problems I had. I’d probably, now, be able to perform the procedure myself.

“We have two specific upgrades for your problems. They will turn your life around. Life will get better, everything will make sense.”

Making sense just made sense. I consented.

“Mr, Reed. I need to ask, how are you going to pay for these upgrades, no health plan will cover them.”

“My daddy died, and lots of money I get from him. Money no problems.”

“Ok then.” He paused, perhaps looking for the weakness, because money wasn’t it.

“You play basketball? You’re quite tall.”

“Nah, sports I is not good. I drop the ball.”

“Well sense you’re already getting 2 upgrades, we like to offer a third at half price. We just got in these new cerebellum upgrades from Intel. They will turn you into a star athlete, comparable to a professional. Although you will need to condition you muscles a bit, your mind will take care of the rest. You’ll feel like superman.”

I consented.

Today, I live a full life. I have a rewarding, challenging job, where I’m the cream of the crop. Twice a week I play basketball in a house league. Last year I got league MVP – age keeps me out of the pros. And my social life has become like a dream. I meet new people all the time, people who find me charming, witty and insightful. Life truly has turned around, and all for 35.76% of my inheritance. The best gift my father ever gave me.

Lion’s

We regret to inform you

I’ve spent the last three years cleaning bathrooms and mopping floors, filling coffee makers and ice machines, stocking shelves and refrigerators, and painting. In all that time the only thing I’ve cared for is painting. I’ve painted the sunset over 100 times in different light and different angles but all from the back of the convenience store that I work at. Looking past the propane tanks and with a clear view of the highway for customers, I painted.

I also painted self portraits and portraits of customers from the security tapes. I’m mostly work form memory on those, but it was a good reference for the feeling of the customer. I always try to put the persona of a person into their portrait. Even when painting myself.

A little while back I was looking at those self portraits; I was looking at the whole collection. That’s what has brought me here, to the waiting room of the only doctor in town. I could see a progression, or regression, in the portraits that I have painted. Not in the quality but in the character of the paintings. In the first few I was up right and willing and in the last few I was shades of grey and slouched.

I’ve sent out portfolios to a number of galleries all letters in response start with “We regret to inform…” and I’ve started smoking. It helps relieve the disappointment of a rejection and there free, I pilfer them from work. “Regret to inform…” that’s all I get. I have no connections and no advantages. So, I am here at the doctors seeking an advantage by getting a certification of being disadvantaged.

I’ve taken an IQ test once for real and a second time mislaying the answers to pad the results. But, it seems that if you don’t have a history of being a dim whit the art galleries seem not to care that you have become a dim whit. Unless, there was some horrific accident. Other then that, you have to have been a dim whit for the whole of your life for your art to sell because you’re a dim whit. I cannot be classified as a life long dim whit so the letters still read “We regret to inform…”

Now, I’m seeking certification by a doctor that I have some terrible affliction; I just don’t know how to get the doctor to agree. So, I sit here in a former farm house converted to family practice, with white washed floor boards and chicken wire sculptures of roosters.

“Just-in, Justin Reynolds,” the nurse read off the file on her clip board. I was the only patient in the waiting room. “I think that’s me,” I said and I walked back.

When I got off the doctor’s bench the sanitary paper crunched in relief of my weight, and I had a note in hand. He said that I couldn’t get any medication and if it were found out some how we would classify it as a misdiagnosis. I offered free cigarettes and gas as a bribe. He refused and said I should thank him for not letting Mr. Weston, the owner and Dr. Green’s good friend, know of how willing I was to part with my company’s stock without consent. But, he wanted a person to brush his horses once a week and thought that that it might help my Parkinson’s. He laughed after he said that.

Now I’m not one that ever thought I would do this, and I feel bad for those that have the disease for real. I try to rationalized this quick fix by the progressive degradation of my self portraits and the fact that if I didn’t try something now I might have to be dealing with a real affliction soon.

I have written a new cover letter, complete with Dr. Green’s diagnosis, and included it with my portfolio and sent it to a gallery in New Orleans. I just hope that the reply doesn’t start with “We regret to inform…”