The 5th of August…

I hate going to the doctor.  There’s a lot of background to the reasons why. But that’s a different blog post altogether. Suffice to say –  I get anxious. My heart rate and blood pressure rise at the anticipation. Which, in turn, is more reason for me to see the doctor. Which means an elevated heart rate and… well, you get the picture.

I left work early today and made the trek into the city.  Our doctors’ office is adjacent to a prominent medical school — which is a nice feeling because you get the sense that there is learning and enthusiasm all around you. Plus — it’s fun watching the nervous med students following their subject matter experts all in a single file row behind the doctor like ducklings following their mama.  It gets interesting when the doctor simply walks the same corridor over and over again in a fifteen minute period.

I got a nice parking space — metered, of course. I mean, it’s downtown DC. (And I was fortunate to not have to parking in the overpriced, underground garage.) I walked the few blocks, getting to my appointment about ten minutes early. 2:50. I checked in and waited in the waiting room.  Anxious. Nervous.  I really shouldn’t have been; it was a follow-up visit.  But the waiting was nerve-racking.

At 3:15 I was taken back and processed. Weighed. Temperature taken. Blood pressure taken. As a happy surprise all three were lower than I had expected. Score!  And then I waited in one of the rooms. No magazines.  Just an open door heading to the hallway where I could see all of the physicians with their rank file of third-years following them.

While I was Twittering a bit on my phone, a doctor in the hallway stops at my room. “How are you?” he asks. I’ve never seen the guy before, so I’m wondering if he’s talking to me.  I ask him, and apparently he is. “You don’t recognize me from here?”

I was really at a loss.

“Um… help me out here?” I ask.

“I just saw you this Saturday. At shul [synagogue]. I’m one of your congregants!”

Huh?  I’ve been called a lot of things in life.  But I’m sure I’m not a rabbi or any other form of clergy. At least I haven’t been in the past week.

“You handed me the Torah scroll, remember?”

And so I did remember — It was my turn to serve as a gabbai at the Saturday morning Shabbat service at the synagogue.  A gabbai is a person who helps choreograph the many parts of the service for reading from the Torah which involves some singing, some chanting, some stage managing, and a lot of heavy lifting.   And I sort of recognized the guy in the white coat as the bald guy in the suit I handed off one of the Torah scrolls to during the processional before returning them to the Ark.

But it was weird. What does one say aside from “Hey! Great seeing you!” Do I ask how his day is going? Do I tell him the details of my scrotum replacement surgery or whatever other reason I might be at the doctor’s? I suppose I just felt that it was a place I simply didn’t want to be recognized. And this Saturday morning, I sure as hell will have to recognize him and make it a point to say hi. And hope his eyes don’t wander down to see if my physician did a good job. *ahem*

So — 3:00 appointment. At 3:55 my doctor comes in with his med student in tow. He apologizes for being late.  We talk. He asks me questions and I answer. I ask questions and he answers. The med student scribbles down everything furiously in a notebook. Ten minutes later we’re done — I should continue doing what I’ve been doing and come back in three months.

My meter was expired when I got back to the car — but no ticket.  Not bad…

And now, for no related reason in particular, here’s one of my favorite songs by one of my favorite artists. At least the song is somewhat appropriate for today…

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