Doctor talk

“And how are we today?” he said, and it got me wondering, why do doctors always speak in pluralis majestatis?

“Well, I don’t know about you, doc but, I’m fine. My left foot not so much though,” I said. “I’m pretty certain it’s broken.”

“Well, let’s take a look. Where does it hurt?” I showed him.

“And how do we think we broke our foot?” Again, with the royal speak.

“No idea how ‘we’ broke it. It’s one of my life’s great mysteries. Would you like to hear the other ones?”

He ignored my question and, “Does this hurt us?” he asked squeezing the bones near my ankle.

“Ouch! Yes, it hurts me but not so much you.”

“And what about his?” “OUCH! Quit it. That hurts.”

“And here?”

“OUCH! Stop it. Just quit. If you do that again I’m going to hit you.” He laughed. I didn’t.

“Ok and this?” and he squeezed again.

“Ouch! God d—— it.

Quit it! I showed you where it hurt. I told you it hurt. And I told you if you squeezed it one more time, I’m going to hit you.”

“Well, I have to examine you.”

“Done and done, doc. What you need to do is get an X-ray and quit with the squeezing, already.”

“Ummmm does this …” and again he squeezed, actually sorta poked my foot — hard.

“Oooooch!” Smack.

“You hit me!”

“Not like you weren’t warned,” I said and he turned me over to an X-ray technician saying, “please take this older woman …” And that was all I heard before the rushing in my ears started and I saw red.

Older woman? Older woman? Are you talking about me? No one has ever referred to me as an “older woman.” This doc was making no points with me. None at all.

Fortunately there was no more squeezing or poking or name calling or smacking. There was just a diagnosis of two stress fractures on two bones — oh and a case of plantar fasciitis. Nothing to be done for either as a boot would help the fractures but exacerbate the plantar fasciitis and the stretching and icing treatment for the plantar fasciitis would hinder the bone healing. I was, as my grandmother used to day, “hoisted on my own petard.”

So, I left with a prescription for pain pills and instructions to stay off the foot and keep it elevated. I was not a happy “older woman.” Not even a little bit.

If you read this column on a regular basis, you will know that several weeks ago I injured by back and was down for the count for a couple of weeks on pain pills. And now I was going to be on my butt on pain pills. Not happy. Not even a little bit.

I got home and set myself up with a cup of tea, pillows to elevate my foot, a cheap and tawdry whodunit and a bowl of popcorn. I took my pain pill and settled in. It took all of 20 minutes for the pain pill to hit and set my mind wondering down twisty byways and cul de sacs of bad jokes.

“What do you call a pig that does karate?” I texted my daughter.

“I don’t know. What?” “Pork Chop.”

“Bad, mom. Reaally bad.”

Maybe, but I was on a role.

“What do you call an alligator that steals things?”

“Are you on pain killers again, mom?”

“Yes, but what do call an alligator that steals things?

“Oh lord, mom. Here we go … what?”

“A crookodile!”

At this point I was laughing so hard at my own cleverness I didn’t notice my husband standing there staring at me.

“Hiya honey! What do you call an everyday potato?”

“What?” He said then, asked, “Are you high?”

“As a kite on these little suckers,” I said picking up the prescription bottle and shaking it enthusiastically like a lone maraca.

“Give me those.”

“Nope. Not until you tell me what you call an everyday potato.”

“I do not know. What do you call an everyday potato?”

“A commentator. Get it? A common-tater?” I answered and then was overcome with a ridiculous, uncontrollable case of the giggles.

Michael grabbed the pill bottle and hid it. I dozed off laughing to myself.