What’s Up, Doc?

He said he’ll see me after a month.

It’s barely a month hence and yet there I was, fourth in line to see him.

I was suddenly presented with vacant non-holiday hours, unpaid but I was free anyway, and I hated to put my time to waste. Maneuvering my predicament into gain, I decided to seize the moment and see the doctor who’s allegedly guiding me in managing my asthma—something I developed recently.

“Kumusta ang bakasyon? Masaya ba?” I knew outright that it was his pathetic attempt to start a conversation. It doesn’t take the units I’ve passed in my speech communication classes to realize that his opening line doesn’t make a good opening line. Perhaps it was due to his poor delivery.

But he’s a doctor, not a trained public speaker and so I let his teeny tiny communication blunder pass. As detached as his question sounded, I tried to answer with a cold yet sincere, “Not Really.”

“Not really?!” He retorted incredulously. His tone seemed to be accusative. His non-verbals were telling me, “How dare you not to be thankful for the long weekend the holy week provided!”

I shoved off his silent allegation. He knows nothing of what the holy week had been for me. The word “hell” couldn’t quite cover it.

“Don’t ask.” I said dryly to signify that he ought to quit probing. Mind you, I was smiling the whole time so I don’t think that by delivering my lines I came out bitchy. I still get the vibe that the Doc finds me amusing, if not funny, which is weird.

I can shriek right in front of him and claim that I’m in terrible pain but this trained medical man wouldn’t believe me. Needless to say, I seem to be devoid of credibility where my doctor is concerned. There must be a sign hanging on my forehead which says, “I have been watching too many medical drama series.” And Doc was alert enough not to miss it.

During my recent time out with my friends, I was able to tell them about my last two trips to the doctor. Of course, I shared how I thought the doctor thought of me, my self-prognoses, and inquisitive queries.

My friend then asked me, “gwapo ba yung doctor?”

Hmm…non sequitur much?

“OK lang. I mean may itsura sya pero di ko sya type.” As if he being my “type” would make a difference. “At saka parang matanda na siya.” I added.

He can’t be more than 12 years older than I am, but, for some reason, Doc has a father aura in him; one wouldn’t really dare to think of him in umm, ahhh…a dirty kind of way. Well, it helps that I’ve been nurtured with a healthy dose of love from my dad so I’m not really one of those girls who badly seek a father figure in their lives, perhaps much like Kris Aquino does (or did).

For those who are interested to know, I think I didn’t see Doc wearing any wedding band. If you ask me, I may give you his number or his email address, whichever data can be found in his card which you wish to obtain.

Going back, Doc and I, we lack the chemistry my friend seems to wish was there. We lack the rapport which could have potentially turned our appointments into a romantic setting for a story Cupid, himself, may have concocted.

Plus there’s the fact that the check up doesn’t go over ten minutes. Doc just listened to my lungs, which by the way is now free of the wheezing sound, and took a glance at my tongue to see if there are fungi populating it—a threat my inhaler poses—to which I was cleared.

At that point, I thought, “boy, these doctors make easy money!” And then my thoughts continued to drift off, “what if a doctor happens to be the weakest in his class, should he charge his patients less than the doctors with high grades do?”

Haven’t that ever crossed your mind?

“You can go back to your normal routine.” This was Doc’s order after the not-so pleasantries, use of stethoscope and a hasty ocular inspection. “But make sure you continue with the inhalers.”

The inhalers! Holy crap, the inhalers that will lead me to bankruptcy! (Yes I’m exaggerating but if you know how financially challenged I am, you’d say I’m not exaggerating much.) And the inhaler's design cannot go more phallic than it already is. I can hear the darn man (I have a strong hunch it was a guy who designed the packaging) snickering for having been able to get away with a design that celebrates his machismo in a very uncalled for way.

He ends, “I’ll see you again in two months. Perhaps we’ll decrease the dosage then.”

Two months. I’m looking forward to zero asthma attacks, zero inhaler dosage, and non-zero savings.

I’m just glad he didn’t prescribe me any of those steroids I had to take in orally! If that ever happened, Doc would most definitely lose me at hello.