Disclaimer: The names and events below are composites; no personal
information is included that could point to any one person, living or dead.

A Taste of the Office

           I “badge in” through the backdoor of my medical office, tuck my aging leather briefcase into a corner, then lumber over to the coffee machine in the quiet of the morning. There’s nobody here. My younger partners don’t drink this stuff. They have their boundaries.
            My son bought me this coffee cup, now chipped and stained. “I Write,” it says. I spin the words away until they face the wall.
            Fat chance of writing on a Monday.
            Twenty patients. Eleven hours straight, if I’m lucky. After that, I still need to exercise, because that’s the toll to function with my disease. Where’s the fun in all this labor?
            Wait a minute! Who’s coming in today?
            I check my schedule.
            Mr. Small! Weight 360. He’s twice the man I am. Twice the talker, too.
            And Mrs. Brewer. Yeast infection.
            So many others, with names and problems that match.
            I think I love them all.
            What if this is my lucky day? What if I’m Doc Holliday and today is my O.K. Corral?
            Time to gear up. Three minutes to showtime.
            Stethoscope? Check. Sport coat and tie? Check. Holstered pen and notecard? Check. Game face? Check.
            Total focus. Quality work, then one good laugh. All I need is one! Like a lightning flash I’ll draw my pen, write it down for the humor file. My face will never crack. Just one situational joke and I’ll count the whole day a win, no matter what else happens.
            Five o’clock P.M., and I’m eighteen patients in, one hour behind. Plenty of hardship in my patients’ lives. I’ve excised one cancer, and I’ve put the correct person in the hospital. But there’s nothing on my notecard. I still have the in-box and I must exercise hard after I get home.
            “Mr. Small’s ready in fourteen.”
            After previewing his medical records, I knock my usual pattern, shave-and-a-haircut, then enter the exam room. Seated in the corner is my long-time patient in broad silhouette, backlit by the evening sun.
            He’s not weeping; neither is he hostile. Seems like a standard entry, so I smile and offer a cheerful greeting. I apologize for the wait.
            I step to the sink on the far side of the computer to wash my hands. On a good day I rub my stethoscope down with alcohol; today’s a good day.
           Mr. Small is polishing off a McDonald’s cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke.
           “Don’t yell at me, doctor. I already know what you’re gonna say! Lose some weight. I know I’m big, you could even say I’m o-beast.”
           O-beast. I need to remember that one. Should I write it down now? I ought to be able to remember it. Don’t want to be rude. Still–my finger is twitching by the holster.
           “I’m o-beast,” he continues, “and the reason is, I’m sedimentary.”
            Like a flash I draw my weapon from its holster and fire. I scribble out both bullet points, o-beast and sedimentary, one after the other. My face is granite.
            My patient takes a final triumphant bite of his sandwich, then washes it down with his drink.
            “What do you mean by sedimentary?”
            “I don’t move enough!”
            The Grand Canyon is a mile deep, with sediments of yellow, brown, and red, that stretch beyond sight. I imagine that cheeseburger layering out in the Canyon, spread out over a hundred miles and washed smooth with a slurry of Coke and fries.
            On my notecard I have two bullet points from one patient, one encounter, like twin bullet holes drilled by a champion gunfighter into the chest of his enemy. I tuck my document safely into my left breast pocket—right over my heart—then fold my hands, and rest in peace. I imagine the sheriff approaching to examine the wounds in my chest. He pulls out a deck of playing cards, then covers both holes at once with the ace of spades.
            My twentieth patient awaits, but my nurse needs to get to Tai-Kwon-Do.
            “I’ll try to be quicker,” I tell her. My whole day has been a win already.
            “Sure you will.”
            My last patient is a European native who’s just lost 30 pounds intentionally, and his face is aglow. He greets me with his deep radio voice.
            “Did you see what I did? Did you see that?”
            “I see it, alright. Amazing! How did you lose all that weight?”
            “Doc, you won’t believe it. I just cut the cheese! That’s it and it worked. And now I tell all my friends in America the same thing: You want to lose weight, just cut the cheese!”

            Note: I never mean to make fun of my patients, not for their weight, not for their hearing or speech or for any other reason. Their problems are my problems. When they suffer, I suffer. But when they say something funny, I enjoy it. Otherwise I’m at risk of losing my mind. And yes, in case you were wondering, I did the right thing in the end: I told my patient that in America, there is a second meaning to cut the cheese. He deserved to know.

TAT

            PS: This is my first attempt at a humor column. No doubt I have much to learn. I will try many approaches; they will not all be medically related. But if you have ideas on writing humor, or good medical humor stories, I’d love to hear from you.