What’s Up Doc? … I’m Outta Here.

To the Editor:
What makes Sammy run? The answer is doctor’s offices. Having just been operated on for prostate cancer, I returned to the surgeon’s office for a follow-up visit. The gold standard for prostate cancer is supposed to be surgery. “Got it all” was my assurance. When the new face behind the desk started to counsel me about hormone therapy, I was confused. I had done my homework about prostate cancer and knew that hormone treatment was usually given to advanced cancer patients, never to those who went the surgery route. I asked to be excused to visit the men’s room and made a mad dash for the elevator to my escape vehicle, never to be seen again.
Then around Halloween one year, I made an appointment to see an eye doctor. Bell’s palsy had done a real number on the total left side of my kisser. I could have gone trick or treating that same night and made a killing. The visit was to determine if my vision had been impaired by the Bell’s palsy. Patients in the seaside waiting room tried not to stare. When a nurse escorted me into the examining room, she sat me down for a brief history. Why had I made an appointment? Bell’s palsy was my response. She was wearing glasses that looked as though the lenses were made by Pepsi Cola. When she asked me about which side of my face had been ravaged, I again asked to be excused for a visit to the bathroom, only after I snatched my coat off the hook on the door. Appointment messages sent by their office have gone into the trash.
A third exodus occurred from the office of a Florida ear, nose, and throat guy. Tinnitus was causing a constant ringing in my right ear. Some bike mechanic decided to fill my bike tire in front of me as I stood at the customer slot, and he got a little carried away. The tire exploded next to my ear, and tinnitus became my constant companion. Again, the standard question was asked. Why was I here? Tinnitus was my answer. The young, inexperienced med tech asked me to first spell it and then asked what exactly was it. Exit number three happened like the joint was ablaze.
I’m a little too old and crotchety to tolerate even the suggestion of medical stupidity whether it emanates from the physician or his underlings. When you’re in the top ninth inning in this game of life, as I am, and have done your best to keep kicking, you have every right to be a pain in the butt.