It’s well established that I don’t like doctors. For me, they are right up there with horses. It’s not that I don’t respect them or their knowledge (the doctors). Whenever I do something stupid, such as step on a nail, they are always accommodating and do things that I can’t do myself.
However, I don’t voluntarily seek them out. I’m not one to run off to the doctor for every little ailment. In fact, it has to be a really big problem for me to even consider it.
I certainly won’t think about running off to the doctor when I’ve shelled out a lot of money on a fundraising dinner. Unless of course, I’m dying.
Many years ago, I had almost died from a lethal dose of steak. I know, what a way to go. I was visiting my psychotic girlfriend in San Francisco at the time. As we were having dinner, a piece of steak became lodged in my throat. I thought I could get it out. I usually could. But this was stubborn booger. I leaned over a chair, I pushed on my chest, I stuck my finger down my throat in an attempt to reverse its course – nothing.
Finally, my girlfriend called 911. The firefighters dutifully arrived. By now, the steak had made up its own mind and headed south. Still, they had to check me out. As one of the firefighters tended to me, the others were hitting on my girlfriend. As they did, the guy taking care of me whispered, “Didn’t your mother tell you to chew your food?”
Thanks for that! Great advice. Asshole.
Fast forward about 10 years. By now I was happily married and living in Port Orchard. Being big fish in a very little pond, we always did the fundraising circuit. On this particular night, we were at the Soroptimist dinner and auction. I had picked up a bottle of wine for dinner and we proceded to have a delightful meal with friends and local movers and shakers.
The steak was delicious. But one piece of “fundraiser steak” had a mind of its own. It stopped about midway. By now I’ve had this problem for a while. I knew how to fix it. I took a big swig of water. Nothing. Then a swig of wine. By now I had topped off the tank and it’s not getting pretty at the dinner table.
I realize I have to go to the hospital. Geez, how freaking embarrassing. My wife took over the driving duties and off we go to Harrison Hospital as I hung out the van window, trying to do a little oom-pah on the way. At ER, it’s a Saturday night, so there’s the usual assortment of people with knifing injuries, a gunshot wound comes through the door and there I am, sitting with a bed pan, playing Jesus, alternately gifting the pan with water, then wine. What a great evening so far.
Finally, the doctor arrives. He didn’t look happy. He was dressed up in a tux and he had been called out of the symphony. I halfway expected him to slap me silly with his white opera gloves.
Instead, he sighed and injected me with demerol, right into the top of my hand. Zooooom!!!! Off I went on a great high. He could have just yanked my esophagus out right then and there and serviced it from the outside and I wouldn’t have cared. Within moments he had the steak going to its depths in Davy Jones’ locker and produced a lovely set of souvenir photos for me as a keepsake.
“Oh, just one more thing,” he said. “You need to come back tomorrow for a ‘little’ procedure.”
I have never had any procedure, big or small. I was very upset. It has always been my goal to die with all my pieces still in me, except for the part the doctor took without my permission when I was born. I figured that didn’t count because I had no say over whether the rain hood would stay on or not.
I didn’t sleep very well that night. It wasn’t the thought of the steak I had left behind or the fact that that wonderful demerol shot had worn off. It was complete trepidation about what they were going to do to me the next day.
Thankfully, I wouldn’t have to wait long to find out. The next morning I was ushered back into the same treatment room I had been in the night before. Another shot of demerol. They explained that they were going to increase the size of my esophagus. It seems that all these years, it had become constricted and that’s why I had a tendency to choke on things. It wasn’t because I didn’t chew my food, so there Mister San Mateo Firefighter guy! (making sweeping Italian hand gesture).
Things began to get a little fuzzy as the drug swooped in and took me to paradise. I remember them to tell me to close my eyes. I knew something bad was coming. The last time a doctor had told me to do that was at the dentist’s office. I did as he had said, only to open them just as he was going in for the kill with a tooth extractor. I should have just kept my eyes closed.
But I’m not very good at following instructions, even when severely drugged. I wanted to see what they were going to do. And that’s when the doctor produced the large gray worm. It looked a lot like a piece of household plumbing insulation, but had a slightly pointed end to it, like the Apollo space capsule. Strange I thought, what were they going to do with that?
He then proceeded to jam it down my throat. All the time he’s telling me to relax. I felt like I was in a remake of Deep Throat. I suddenly had a lot more respect for the women I have known. 🙂
A moment or two later, I was fine. I would never have a backup on the food freeway again. I now had a seven lane highway between my mouth and gullet, with no orange cones or “Prepare to Stop” signs. It was all smooth sailing.
I do, however, have a mortal fear of pool noodles, especially whenever my former doctor girlfriend had one in her hand. But that is another story entirely…
Out on the Treasure Coast, thinking about taking up sword swallowing as a profession (with very, very short swords),
– Robb