More from “Is There A Doctor In The House?” from my book…If 40 Is The New 20, I Must Be 10

(This portion of the chapter begins when I arrive at the pain center to be examined for the first time.  Eventually, I will have two injections in my back)

Finally, I arrived at the correct room, signed my name, filled out more forms, and sat down.  The waiting room was full.  You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to know there are many butts in this world.

I had just found a seat when a lady called my name.  Excellent, I thought.  I’m going to get right in. But, it was the restroom where we were headed.

“We need a urine sample,” she said.  “Tinkle in the little cup, put your little cup in the little drawer by the little sink, and then go back to your room.  I’ll call you when it’s time for you to come out again.”

I had the strange sensation that I was being potty trained.  I did what “mommy” told me, and went back to the waiting room.  A few more minutes passed before I sat down in a real room. Two cute girls were in there.  I assumed them to be eleven or twelve. One of the girls began asking me a stream of questions:

“Have you ever taken illegal drugs?  Do you sleep on goose down, polyester, or cotton?  Is your husband a member of the Mafia?  Can you jump down, turn around, and pick a bale of cotton?  Do you prefer plaids or prints? Does your cat sleep on his back or side?  When was your last rabies shot?”

No doubt, these were important questions, but I wasn’t clear about their relevance to my problem.  I dared to ask them something outlandish.

“Is there anyone here who can help me with my back and hip pain?”

“Oh, of course, silly” the cute little technician replied.  “The doctor will be right in.  But first, we need to check your blood pressure, measure your shoe size, and get an inseam.”

I was concerned that this place was in cahoots with the infamous Rabid Cat Mafia, often seen wearing plaid suits, and napping on goose down pillows in the cotton patch. Then, the door opened.

“Hello, Mrs. Smith,” said the kindly voice coming in the door.  “I’m Dr. C.U. Hamn, and I will be shooting you in the butt.  Do you have any questions?”

“Well, yes I do.  I have a list here,” I told him, trying to pull a three paged, single-spaced note from my cluttered bag.

“Go ahead, shoot,” he said.

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