orthopedic surgeon

No more Dr. Squeegy-Hands

I'm a little grumpy today. Last week I cancelled my Friday classes so I could fit into an orthopedic surgeon's schedule for a consult about my injured right arm. I arrived promptly 15 minutes before my appointment so I could fill out the required 37 pages of questions they had for me. Then I was told I could sit and they would come get me when it was time. They had little pagers that would send a shock through one's privates to let them know they were next. Around 10:10 a little helper came and took me back to a sterile room. "Dr. Squeegy-Hands will be back in a moment to see you. You may take off your shirt." I waited until she had left before taking off my shirt lest she swoon.

I read Architectural Digest and two more magazines, learning that there is a cool villa for sale in the south of France for just $100 million. I waited and waited. I wrote a little. No one came by. At 11:20 I put on my shirt and left, more than a little annoyed.

At 12:10 they must have noticed I was gone. There was a phone call. On my cell phone (I hate cell phones) as I was attending to errands. The lady had the temerity to ask, "How are you, Mr. Carenen?"

I told her, exercising great restraint in avoiding perky Anglo-Saxonisms. She apologized. I told her it wasn't her fault, but the fault of the arrogant, inconsiderate, self-absorbed, and unprofessional Dr. Squeegy-Hands.

I decided I could do without a consult for a while, give my arm a little more time to recover, then, if it is still troublesome, seek out another orthopedic surgeon. A different one. One who does not see himself or herself as God incarnate.

Yeah, I'm a little grumpy.