Medical practitioners

Off Facebook.  This comment  appealed to me after all I have been through over the years with medical practitioners.

A propos of doctors . . .

Yesterday, the phone rang at 1:50 pm. "We apologize for running a little late on your appointment. The doctor will be calling you shortly." What appointment? Ah. I must have pacified the secretarial staff some months ago by agreeing to an appointment I would eventually cancel. But I had forgotten to. "Yes," I say aloud, "It's not a problem. Please go on." "The doctor will call you in a few moments." "Please assure him that I'm perfectly fine," I say, thinking, drat, i was just about to go scruffing in the garden. 

She ignores my implicit request for him not to bother me. "But before he calls you, someone from the office will call you . . ." 

Bewildering. 

Someone "from the office" was already speaking to me. 

However. The Fordian knot of the assembly mode of communication intrigued me. So I waited. "Someone" rang. 

An accountant, obviously, because she wanted my consent for billing  my  medical insurance for the doctor's telephonic visit. So, this alacrity on the part of my "provider" was solicited by lucre. 

Very well, I gave my consent. The "accountant," then proceeded to exalt the doctor's concern for his patients in this TERRIBLE EPIDEMIC in which we must all take care of one another--"so long as the insurance pays for it," I thought, viciously. 

Aloud, I say, "How kind. Please thank him for me."  I enjoy being a polite shit, mainly because only I get it. 

The doctor calls. Let's call him Dr. Fell. "How are you Dr. Fell? It's so nice to hear you. I was looking forward to seeing you." 

Polite-shit mode over the top to equalize the doctor/patient hierarchy. I decide to make him work for his money by wasting his time. "I've been very well, Dr. Fell. Nothing has changed since I last saw you." Centuries ago? "I'm in top form, if I may say so myself. Usual things: I write, I read, I work in the garden. The corn teen is not a burden for me. Rather a boon, you know." 

I flood him with dizzy, addled chatter. "So," I continue. All is well . . But . . . yes, there is something new here, something wonderfully exciting in my life . . . " "Oh," he says somnolently. "i have a new dog. A puppy shi-tzu. They come from Tibet, you know. Immensely affectionate and playful. Come here, pet Say hello to Dr Fell. Come and bark at him. He already barks, you know. And he knows his name. I thought I'd give him a Chinese name, Xiongmao,  since he comes from China . . ." 

Now, he actually interrupts, "Where the virus comes from." 

Full stop on my part. This is no longer amusing. In fact I might start to bark like an Irish hound, upsetting Xiongmao, sleeping on my feet. "Bye, bye, Dr. Fell. See you after the pestilence." 

Well, I think. And this is a man of science. "The virus comes from China." Why in the world would I trust him to check my blood pressure, huh? If it's too high, it might come FROM CHINA.