doctor visit

I took a couple hours from work this morning to see my doctor. I've had a stubborn sty in one eye for the past five days that refuses to go away and so yesterday morning I decided to call for an appointment. Of course my doctor wasn't available at all (I haven't actually seen him in years) and his PA (Physician's Assistant) wasn't available until this morning. I've been to several different PAs at his office over the past few years, each of whom has been a well-meaning, slightly awkward, hyper-professional young person who has instilled very little faith in me. They make me feel old. They look like those really bright junior high school students that get selected to attend advanced college-level summer programs. I had promised myself that I would never take an appointment with one of my doctor's PAs again, but I figured there wasn't much room for harm if I was just having someone look at my sty. My mother could have done that.

I got to the doctor's office and waited almost ten minutes for the elevator. I forget each time I go that I must plan the extra time into my commute. It's the slowest elevator in Manhattan and everyone on it is coughing and sneezing. I have been tempted time and again to walk up all eight flights of stairs to the waiting room. I would if I weren't sick, but then I never go there when I'm well.

Once I was off the elevator and signed in, I took a seat with a dog-eared copy of New York magazine to await my appointment. The office is always packed with patients for several different doctors and a large staff behind an open desk that leaves everyone in the waiting area privy to every phone call, medical insurance discussion and the office gossip. As often happens, a drug company salesman came through and slipped medical samples to every doctor that passed through the waiting room with the kind of covert handoff that one associates with, well, drugs. After a few minutes my actual doctor came through, took a hand off from the drug salesman, grabbed a chart and another patient and headed for his office without so much as a nod hello to me. I've been considering changing doctors and this seemed to clinch it.

And then I heard my name called.

"Jay," a warm young voice came from the far end of the room, "I'm Tony, Dr. Schmoe's PA."

There beaming at me was Tony. Yes, he was another well-meaning, hyper-professional youth, but he was also very handsome and had a nice dark gruff.

In his office he looked deeply into my eyes, whether he was examining the sty or explaining my condition. He told me I was a model patient for how well I had taken care of the eye to that point and how well I described my symptoms to him. He sat with his knees to either side of mine and touched my face a lot. Umm... he was supposed to do all this because he's the doctor and I came to see him about my eye, but Lordy it was sexy. I kept looking for chest hair at his shirt collar. I wanted to ask him if he ever did these consultations in the nude and if Oxford covered the extra charge. Of course, flirting with him was not an option for several reasons, my looking like a cat with one sick eye not being the least of them.

He finished me off with a prescription, should hot compresses not do the trick, and set me off into the waiting room with a slip to pay my co-pay. I all but whistled along with the piped in holiday music as I waited another ten minutes for the down elevator and then headed for the street. Maybe Dr. Shmoe isn't so bad after all, and maybe his PAs aren't so untrustworthy. I'll have to give Tony the opportunity to work on something more complex than a sty in the near future.