In Doctor Godot's Waiting Room
Will de Kypia
~~

_____________New print on the wall, sailboats at rest.
__________________An appropriate image for a flotilla of becalmed patients.

___Some of us hoping to receive a revised forecast—
___medical, not meteorological—that is better
___than the stormy one we got last visit.

___The new one perhaps calling for kindlier winds to
___billow our sails, so we may once again enjoy a
___tranquil passage across a calm sea of life.

Meanwhile we can peruse the usual suspects found in other
waiting rooms. Reader’s Digest. Good Housekeeping. People.
Suspects already interrogated by a plague of sick folk.

There are also a few unusual suspects.
Here’s Savage—no, it’s Savvy Investing,
really ought to get my eyes checked again.   

Fashion Forward Feminist, for the woman who
wants to show she's a professional but sexy too.

The Artful Gamer says “Kinetic Energy Studio’s
ULTRA-3D XT AR+/VR+ Suicide Drone Pilot 2K24:
Best War Game Of The 21st Century—So Far!”

I was born in the 20th century,
sometimes wish it had been the 19th.
There should be a “Gatling Gunner”
game for geezers like me.

Terminal Geriatrics wants to introduce me
to “Pneumonia, Your Last Best Friend.”

Thanks, I have enough friends.
 
The Hemostat offers “Flex the Sex: Kegels for Men.”
Hmm, interesting, I’ll check that out with the doc.

Also “Twenty-Four Important Medical Tests.”
 
In the old days you just did the annual physical thing.

Step on the scale, say “aah,” cough, kick, pee,
and you were awarded a clean bill of health.
“That’s that, you’re fine, see you next year.”
 
Nowadays they want more, tormenting
everyone with their four-and-twenty tests.

Cuff you the moment you walk in,
confirm that your pressure is up again,
and then draw all those vials of blood.

Vampires. Sucking up our vital fluid,
making us all anemic.
 
Past a certain age, a man knows he will measure
out the rest of his life in medical examinations.
So many of this one, so many of that, each of
them documenting the depredations of time.

Until he fails the final exam when the ultimate
examiner will require that he settle his account.
 
We begin the testing process with our primary care
physician who will order a CBC. More blood.
 
EEG, nothing wrong with my brain.  
 
EKG, how ticks the old ticker?
 
There are thyroid and pre-diabetes screenings,
a fecal occult blood test—Lovecraft would love
it—and the double-contrast barium enema.
Bubble, bubble, my innards are in trouble.
 
Colonoscopy every ten years or sigmoidoscopy
every five, sounds a bit Freudian.
 
Are you now or have you ever been a smoker? 
Spiral CT scan for lung cancer, yeah,
I’ve seen lung cancer.

The carotid artery ultrasound for stroke.
The ankle-brachial index.

Magical weapons these doctors
wield in this 21st century.

But modern day magic is expensive.
At least I've got insurance, good insurance.
You hear about people without any like…
Who was it? Someone else with cancer.
 
I’m forever half-remembering things.
 
Why is a brainpan like a bedpan?
They’re both full of crap. Ha, ha. 
 
Transferrin? The TIBC? To be an informed
invalid you need to go to med school.

Tests used to be simple.
Cholesterol was high or it was not high.
 
Then things got complicated with this good and bad
cholesterol stuff. Different kinds of lipids, triglyceride
levels and an LDL/HDL ratio? Too complicated for me.    
 
Next test, the aneurysm scan. Why?
You’re cruising along at 70 miles an hour,
a sudden blowout, and it’s over.

What a great way to go.
I want that one.
Or else I want a gun.
 
Gender tree tells me no CA 125 or Pap smear.
Nothing transvaginal required. Instead,
I get the PSA as well as the dreaded DRE.   
 
Don't forget regular visits to the various specialists.

First a dentist.

“Biennial dental exam twice a year.”

Sure.

However that “biennial” is a superfluous malapropism.
Change it to “biannual,” or preferably “semiannual.”

Then delete it.
 
Ophthalmologist, previously noted.
 
See your dermatologist once a year.
Actinic keratoses. Three main skin cancers.
All that time in the sun, serves me right…
 
There are even do-it-yourself tests.

Monthly testicular self-exam in the shower,
always popular. Oral self-exam in the mirror
for signs of erythroplakia or leukoplakia,
see illustrations below. Less popular.
 
Just reading about these afflictions could turn
you into a hypochondriac obsessively reciting
a catalog of delusional self-diagnosed ailments.
 
“Doctor, there was blood on my toothbrush
this morning. My bowels are loose and
the lesion in my soul keeps growing.”
 
I have no delusions. Or illusions.
 
An old man going under the knife is last season’s chaff
ready for burning. Not much heat to give, less light.

Mostly bad smells and the kind of smoke that
might leave a smudge on his friends for a while. 
 
Well…that is more than enough melancholia for
one office visit. I shall return to the usual suspects.

Sports Illustrated, not the swimsuit issue.

National Geographic, same as before.

The New Yorker, different.

And something called Truth—no, that’s Trout F…

Pardon me?
Yes, yes I am.
Thank you, I can find it.
This is not my first time here.
________________________. >
_________________________Sail On