Another day at the orifice


“I don’t like going to see doctors because one decided to pop a few digits into my body and soul.”

  The winter months bring out a lot of good things around campus: hotter coffee, beautiful snow and yoga pants. However, in all that shining beauty is a gigantic speck of darkness—flu season. Flu season is the worst. In fact, sickness is the worst. The only thing I hate more than sick people are people in general, and the only thing I hate more than people in general is getting sick and having to go to the doctor’s. And the only thing I hate more than all of this stuff combined is Nickelback.

I have hated going to the doctor’s since I was a little kid. Everyone has gone through having your parents sway you into the car with promises of ice cream or a Happy Meal, only to find out that you are actually going to be poked and prodded by some medical quack who for some reason is severely overweight and out of shape even though his job consists of telling people to be healthy.

Even though I despised every trip to the doctor, like a good little boy I would grin and bear it, even feigning excitement on some occasions. This went on for many years, into adolescence, before something happened that would change my life forever. The day that I received the biggest shocker of a lifetime (go back and read this line after you’ve read ahead. If you are as childish as me, it should make more sense).

One grim day, when I was just a lad of 14 or 15, I had to go to the doctor’s for something. I have involuntary blocked out most details about that day, so I can’t really remember my reason for seeing a physician. All I do remember is that it was a doctor that I had not gone to in quite a few years.

The majority of the day was normal, consisting of normal teenager stuff: pleasure myself a few times before lunch, rebel against society, etc. So I get to the doctor’s office in the afternoon and go in to see him. Everything is pretty normal up to this point.

Here is what happened next:

“Turn around, young man,” the doctor said.

“OK. I’m a teenager, and I don’t typically like conforming to traditional societal practices, but I will,” I replied.

The next think I knew that doctor was knuckle-deep in my special place. If he was searching for my dignity, there definitely was none to find.

I have no doubt that he did this for a legitimate medical reason. Everyone assures me that he did. But maybe instead of just throwing darts into my comfort zone with no warning at all, he could’ve given me some kind of a head’s up.

I’m realizing now that this narrative kind of got away from me, so I will return to my original point. I hate flu season. I hate flu season because I hate sick people. I hate sick people because I don’t like going to see doctors. I don’t like going to see doctors because one decided to pop a few digits into my body and soul.

And we’re back.

It’s not that I HATE doctors or anything like that. I respect the hell out of them. Anyone who dedicates their lives to curing diseases and saving lives is just fine in my book. No matter what, however, the thought of it happening again will always be in the back of my mind and will likely deter me from visiting one anytime soon.

Still, I can’t help but think that things would have turned out differently if that doctor had bought me dinner first.