The Doctor Will See You Now

As has been made abundantly clear to my Lovely Bride, I have been suffering from a backache that is roughly as painful as having one's leg fed into a garbage disposal made of hot acid. Because of a contract dispute between Blue Cross Blue Shield and my medical clinic, however, I have had to suffer in stoic silence. That dispute has now been settled and I am once again able to enjoy the fruits of a health insurance system that is the envy of Liberia.

After getting weighed ("I'm sorry Mr. Snag, I don't think you're wearing thirty pounds of clothing"), I settled in to wait for the doctor. I'd foolishly neglected to bring anything to read and was forced to browse through the few materials in the examination room. Family Circle. Country Living. Coping with Osteoporosis. Slim pickings.

Soon enough there was a knock on the door and the doctor let himself in. "Good morning," he said, eyeing me curiously as I tried to hide the breastfeeding pamphlet I'd been studying.

"Hey, how's it going?" I asked.

"Fine, fine," he said. "What seems to be the problem?"

"I've got a heck of a backache," I told him.

"Where exactly does it hurt?"

"If I was a cow, it would be from the chuck roast area down through my right foreshank."

He stared at me.

"My shoulder blade through my right arm," I explained. Doctors don't always get my sophisticated wit.

"Let's take a look," he said. He ran me through a series of simple tests, poked and prodded a little bit, and stepped back.

"I'm guessing rickets or scurvy," I said.

"I'm pretty sure we can rule those out," he replied. "Looks like you've got a strained muscle. Do you remember doing anything to it?"

"I pushed some particularly heavy paper a few weeks ago," I told him.

"I suppose that could do it," he said, doing his best to humor me.

"Can I tell my wife you advised me to start smoking again?" I asked hopefully.

"No."

"Please? I'll give you another co-pay."

"No. You cannot start smoking again. That won't help at all."

"It would make me feel better."

"That doesn't matter. I am not going to tell you to smoke."

"Okay, so what should I do?"

"Move around when it starts to hurt. Get some exercise. Don't sit in front of a computer for too long."

"Are you sure I can't just smoke instead?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Alright. Anything else?"

"If it's really bothering you I can write a prescription for a muscle relaxant. That might help you get a good night's rest."

"No thanks. I need to sleep with one eye open. I've got a lot of life insurance."

"Hmm," he said, making a note in my file.

"That was a joke," I told him nervously.

"Of course it was," he said.