The Sign Said "Professional Building," But Something Reminded Me of Brownsville Station

Monday I had a follow-up appointment with my pulmonary specialist. I really like him. He's outgoing and personable and seems like he knows what he's doing. The good news is that even though my Backroads hospital sent him a CAT scan of questionable quality, he saw no blood clots in my lungs. The bad news is that now he's changed his tune, and wants to keep me on this blood-thinner until May. I said I didn't want to be on it that long, and he said, "Well, you want to live, don't you?" I think he was being a bit overly dramatic, but he's the doctor. AND he said he's two years older than me, so he gets to boss me around.

The most remarkable thing about that appointment was not what the doctor had to say, but the atmosphere in the waiting room. First of all, I could have climbed Mount Everest faster than the trip from the parking garage to the pulmonary suite. AND we were locked out when we finally arrived at the end of the Professional Building earth, with no chairs in sight, just a disjointed hallway. I take that back. A bunch of mismatched chairs WERE in sight, in the dark, through the glass of the waiting room. Inside we could see a light on the receptionist behind her window, so busy ignoring us. Finally a different lady came out and turned on the lights and unlocked the door. Let the record show that we arrived at 9:45. The first appointment was at 10:00. I was supposed to get there early to fill out paperwork.

Anyhoo, I signed in and got my clipboard, and Hick and I sat on opposite sides of a corner from each other. Hick busied himself reading a flyer on how your body reacts once you quit smoking. It had a dramatic picture of a black lung. Other people trickled in, including a husband/wife combo who both had an appointment at the same time. I think they were the 10:00, because they were called back just before me, even though I arrived earlier.

While we were waiting, the Combo got up and changed seats, sitting a mere chair away from Hick, and a bit across from me. Hick was playing with his new phone. I sent him a text. "That guy stinks." Of course Hick didn't read it until later, after the HimCombo told the HerCombo he was going to the bathroom, and was gone ten minutes. Judging from his smell before he left, I think I know what he was doing. And it has nothing to do with a toilet. If people in real life had thought bubbles like people in cartoons, here's what was floating above the head of the HimCombo:


How you doin' out there? Did y'ever seem to have one of those days
Where it just seems like everybody's gettin' on your case
From your doctor all the way down to your best wife
Well, y'know, I used to have 'em just about all the time
But I found a way to get out of 'em, let me tell you about it

Sittin' in the waiting room, thinkin' it's a drag
Listenin' to the receptionist rap just ain't my bag
The clock passed 10:30, you know that's my cue
I'm gonna sneak a butt down the hall in the loo

Smokin' in the pulmonary specialist's men's room
Smokin' in the pulmonary specialist's men's room
Now, doctor, don't you fill me up with your rules
Cause everybody knows that smokin' with bad lungs ain't cool

Maybe it's just me, but I expect patients in a pulmonary specialist's waiting room to be smoke-free. Because if you have to see a lung doctor, that means your lungs are not up-to-snuff for smoking. Is that too much to ask? I also expect patients in a podiatrist's waiting room to have at least one foot, patients in an optometrist's waiting room to an eye, and patients in a gynecologist's waiting room to have hooters and a cooter. Oops! Sorry to be so crass as to use the typical Backroads medical terminology for those parts. Ahem. I meant patients in a gynecologist's waiting room should have breastesses and a 'gina.

I really don't think that's too much to ask. Said Val, Queen of the Universe.