The Good Doctors

I do admire and respect doctors. Please believe me. They are in many cases the guardians of human life. It’s just that my experience with the profession, as you may already know, has not always been the most enjoyable.

Of course, the doctors in question have almost always helped me out, except in the instances where they haven’t at all.

After a bout of health issues, I went to see a number of doctors. Amazing what they specialise in. Of course, the body is a miraculous thing and its workings far above the full understanding of man, I believe.

But my. Our doctor folk do like to take advantage of the fact.

I go to my doctor, who is what they call a ‘general practitioner’. Now, the clue is in the title, I would have thought. I would have thought that my doctor was a general expert. With a general view of everything. Every part of the body. Nice. Exactly what I needed.

But no. She (my doctor) offered her best diagnosis, “I will refer you to a specialist.”

I have to at this point mention that she was referring me to a bum specialist. I explained – quite accurately, I believe – that I was having some digestive issues, and she clearly thought that it was an issue that only a bum specialist could assess, and hopefully, solve.

But bums aside, are you following my train of thought? You can hardly call yourself a generalist, when you don’t have a general idea about everything. Perhaps the board outside the doctor’s practice should read “General Practitioner (Except for Bums, Eyes, Nose and Ears. But everything else is fine. Please, come on in.)”.

Are we then to assume that doctors who are generalists are also amateurs? It’s like the generalists were the lazy larkabouts in medical school. Had they exerted a bit more effort, they would have been in for the lesson about bums.

Nope. My doctor missed the bum lesson.

So, she refers me to the bum specialist. Again, please understand that my admiration is high. Anyone who wakes up in the morning fully understanding that they will be gazing at bum holes the entire day (oh, where we could go with that line), has my respect.

“Johnny, Sue! What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“A bum doctor, mummy!”

I blame the parents.

Anyhow, at the bum specialist, I am asked the next obvious question. So obvious in fact, that I did not anticipate it.

“Drop your trousers and briefs, please.”

“Pardon?”

“Drop your trousers and briefs, please. I need to take a look.’

Sputter. Cough. Wheeze.

“But doctor, is not my accurate – almost verbose – description of how I feel not good enough? After all, I don’t even know what it looks like down there. Why should you be the first?”

“Seriously. I need to see.”

I proceed to drop my trousers – and briefs (which thankfully were my favourite ones) – and stand facing the doctor.

“Turn around and bend, please.”

“Are you sure you want to go ahead with this, doctor? I won’t tell anyone if you don’t, and of course I won’t mind.”

“We are in the medical profession. We are used to this kind of business.”

We?! Where on earth did the ‘we’ come from?! Was the bum specialist to invite more friends and passers-by into the room when I was bowed over, bum akimbo?

Nevertheless I did as the specialist requested, nervous that a fright fart would escape. Don’t judge me. Many of you have let out fright farts before, and I pretended not to notice.

But after a few light prods and pokes (I do indeed fully understand the beauty of the word ‘light’), a few ‘hmmmms” and only one “aha”, the doctor continued. “All right, you can dress again.

“I will need to refer you to a tummy doctor.”

Grand. At least I got to moon the bum specialist. The visit would have been rather useful had it not been a complete and utter waste of our time. My bum got some air time and the bum specialist got some Euros.

And off I go to the tummy doctor. At least he won’t need to see my bum. He won’t, will he?