I hate doctors...always have. My wife insists that I visit every damn year, just for a check-up, even if I feel fine. Maryanne is sort of paranoid about that—for her, every headache means a brain tumor, every age spot cancer. And then, when I turned thirty-five, she dropped the P bomb on me. A proctologist; oh boy, talk about the one doctor every guy would break his right arm to avoid. We had some kinda words about that, but as usual, what Maryanne wanted, Maryanne got.
"This Dr. Stone is supposed to be really good, honey," she informed me in that don't-make-me-tie-you-down-and-make-you-go voice she has. "He's really young, and all his patients say he's the best. I made you an appointment for tomorrow."
And that was how I found myself in a small beige room sitting across from two over-fifty gentlemen, skimming through a hunting magazine. I hate hunting, personally, but anything to make me feel macho was a welcome respite from the horror I knew was coming. The only other patients were leafing idly through similar things—one man clutched an old copy of Sports Illustrated, the other the latest edition of Time, and neither looked half as nervous as I felt. A pretty blonde woman in a professional, loose-fitting nurse's uniform was moving busily beyond a frosted glass window near the door; she had had me fill out all my medical information when I came in, giving me an empty, glittering smile as I did. The other two men had come in after me, and since I'd been there for a while, I knew I wouldn't be waiting much longer. I tossed the hunting mag aside in disgust and hunched moodily in the chair.
As if on cue, a door shut somewhere. Then another one—the wrong one—opened into the waiting room.
"Mr. Lamb?" the nurse called, looking around as though I hadn't walked in twenty minutes ago and given her my name.
"It's pronounced Lomb," I told her as I got to my feet. She smiled again, and I was reminded of a crocodile's grin; toothy and treacherous.
"Right this way, sir," she told me, holding the door open. She recorded my height and weight, then led me to a sterile, white room where she listened to my heart and lungs and took my blood pressure. It turned out to be high.
"The doctor will be right with you," she said. I tried to say thanks, but all I managed to get out was a croak. Her crocodile smile didn't waver an inch, but as she slid the door shut behind her, I was certain I heard her giggle. I was alone, waiting for some strange man to go prospecting up my ass.
Maybe it won't be that bad, I thought, squirming a little on the sanitary bed covering that always reminded me so strongly of toilet seat covers. It's not like he's going to jump you or anything...he'll probably be perfectly professional about it. Somehow that wasn't very comforting. A man's professional hand up my ass was still a man's hand up my ass, and it didn't make me feel any better. But the idea was sort of funny; I was struck by the image of a suited arm jammed halfway to the elbow, and I chuckled.
"What's so funny?" said a jovial voice from the door, and I choked on my laughter and turned it into a cough.
"That's more like it," Dr. Stone laughed as he walked into the room. "I don't get too many first time patients that have a sense of humor." Dr. Stone was good looking in a teeny bopper sort of way, and like Maryanne had said, he was young.; he looked like he'd walked out of med school maybe last week. He had a mouthful of gleaming, arrow straight teeth that were almost blinding in the overhead fluorescents, and a head of thick brown hair. He wasn't unnaturally tan, which made me feel better about his youth—I mean, real doctors don't spend hours baking themselves in UV coffins, even young ones, and you can take that to the bank. He had probably played football in high school, judging by the breadth of his shoulders and chest, but otherwise, he just looked like...a doctor. Nothing terribly scary...just an ordinarily scary doctor.
"So we're just doing a routine exam today?" Dr. Stone asked, consulting the clipboard that seemed to be part of every doctor's uniform. I nodded.
"Yeah, my wife wants me to get checked early...she has a history of cancer in her family."
"Mmhmm." I wanted him to say that it was too early, that I could go home and tell Maryanne to wait fifteen years or so, but I was disappointed.
"She's right," he said seriously as he flipped up the top sheet on the clipboard. "You may not have a history of cancer, but your wife probably wants to be safe. Most treated forms of prostate cancer were caught early, some before forty...never hurts to be on the cautionary side." He tossed the clipboard onto the counter and resumed his relaxed pose: butt leaning on the countertop, arms folded, eyes piercing me with steady calm.
