The doctor is in


As readers of this blog know, the Maiden wants to be a doctor when she grows up. Will she really be a brain surgeon someday? Who knows. Maybe so, but maybe she’s just discovered that she can use our desire for her future success to coerce us into taking the part of her victims patients right now.

We’re such suckers.

This afternoon I was bemoaning the fact that I was busy working while the Man and the Maiden were enjoying the holiday and having a good time together. Aside from an extended break to help the Maiden create banana popsicles as a distraction to her insistence that I apply burn cream to her rug burn, most of my Labor Day had been, well, labor. So I got up from the article that I was stuck on anyways, and headed to the playroom.

Fortuitously (for him) the Man had just undergone the last stomach surgery–or brain, or whatever organ was being harvested fixed by the Maiden this time–that his patience could stand. When I ventured into Dr. Maiden’s office, the patient booked it for the living room, where he turned on the TV and started watching a cartoon involving three ladybugs and a cross-dressing caterpillar with a Goldilocks wig on.

Apparently, the lobotomy went horribly awry.

Anyways, the Maiden saw me and pounced, leading me into her lair. I mean office. Although in some ways there’s not too much difference, y’know?

Ahem.

Getting medical treatment from the Maiden is always . . . interesting. First, she has a group practice. You never know which doctor you’ll see, but given that the Maiden has three names, there are quite a few name combinations to choose from. This means that odds are you’ll end up seeing several physicians in succession as the Maiden notices you eyeing the door and realizes that as long as you’re a patient you can’t escape to do something fun like clean the bathroom or empty the trash.

Second, treatment always, always involves a syringe.

Third, syringes notwithstanding, she has a great bedside manner. She’s all sweetie this and honey that, which almost distracts you from the fact that she’s about to stab you with a blunt instrument. Almost.

Finally, she’s very open-minded. Very. In fact, when I was visiting her for a broken ankle, she took out her box of empty pill bottles and waved it invitingly.

Dr. Maiden: “OK, what meds do you want me to give you?”

Me: “Um, you’re the doctor. Aren’t you supposed to decide?”

Her: “No, you can pick any kind you want.”

Me (valiantly resisting temptation): ” . . . ”

I got the orange bottle. As a bonus–Labor Day special, I guess–she threw in some clean syringes in case I needed to use them. She also put together a treat bag including my drugs of choice, random toys, and popsicle sticks because I told her we’d make more banana popsicles later. She also was going to put in her play food ice cream, but then said that no, that was what the dentist would give out in her treat bag.

Whoa. Free drugs for a broken leg, and ice cream when you have decays. That, my friend, is the health care of the future.

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