Today I had the unique, some might say joyous (well, I wouldn’t say it- I didn’t exactly hire a choir to sing praises to the heavens or anything) experience of visiting a U.K. doctor for the very first time.
I went, not because I had once again managed to slice open a major type appendage with an X-acto knife trying to get pork gristle from between my incisors, but because I wanted to and my wife would divorce me if I didn’t.
While I was waiting in the cold mis-matched furniture museum of old folks with sniffles that they call the ‘Waiting Room’ for my name to be called I thought back (insert the fog of reminiscence) to the very first time I went to a medical type doctor person…
3 years old.
My older brother, on a dare (my dare unfortunately), gleefully slams the lid of the toy chest at my Aunt Cornillia’s house (yes, that’s her real name.( Sorry, Corny!) (You old bat.)) on my poor tiny and ever so cute pinkie.
If memory serves, at that precise moment, I honestly thought that I had escaped unharmed.
I felt nothing!
Only a tiny tingle!
I was fine!
Then I tried to casually enter the living room in that cool 3 year old swagger way and I found myself sweating and leaning for support against the dishwasher which was only halfway to my destination.
I thought to myself, “Three-year-old-Wayne, something tells me you are an idiot. Call Mommy! Stat!”
Luckily, even at such an early age, I was a master of communication. I was able to relate my plight coherently, succinctly and effectively thusly:
Part of me still wanted to believe that I was OK. That was until my mom took me in her arms and rushed me to the bathroom and tried to rinse the blood off my hand into the sink.
Then there was a *PLOP*. My finger splashed into the basin like a sad guppy who had met the business end of a stiletto heel.
The next thing I remember was some doctor or another wrapping a bandage around my newly stitched up finger and saying something like, “Dumbass. Next time I’m gonna throw yer pinkie in the garbage myself. Dumbass.”
Anyway…where was I?
Oh yeah, this morning I braved the NHS system and I was treated promptly, professionally and
friend-nally friendlynally like a human being with feelings.
And I’m OK with that.
(And, no. I’m not going to tell why I went in the first place.)
(GEEZ! You’re nosey!)