My doctors seem like they're in constant fear of lawsuits for medical malpractice, or being accused of doing something wrong, so they're explaining exactly what they're doing at every possible junction.
"Now I'm going to lightly tap your shoulder, if that is okay. It's called the Shoulder-Tap maneuver, and it's to give you a little bit of human-to-human encouragement, in an expression of esprit-de-corps before I shake your hand with a smile and leave. If that is okay with you. " Et cetera.
The dentist, on the other hand, is a madman of impunity. "Open wide" is pretty much all you get before he or she goes to town with a tray full of implements, either reciting gibberish to the hygienist ("1-9-3 is 4-G with C, cleared to land on runway 2-4 right, full flaps"), or discussing last night's American Idol (with the hygienist). Is American Idol still on? I hope not.
I've never been squeamish about the doctor or the dentist, so with time running out on my health insurance in Illinois, I continued Health Blitz 2011: Wellbeingmageddon! at the nearest dentist's office, in Crystal Lake. As it so happened, I had a couple of cavities.
"Have you been flossing every single day?" asked the dentist, a cute and professional young Asian woman.
"Do people really do that?"
"No. That's why I have a BMW."
Since I only had a week left before my flight out, I told the receptionist to schedule all the fillings as quickly as possible, on two consecutive days. She seemed worried about me.
So I have no problem at all seeing blood, watching surgeries, dissecting dead animals, etc. I'm not saying I'm some sicko who enjoys seeing blood, watching surgeries, and dissecting dead animals, like as hobbies or something, you bastard, I'm just saying it doesn't bother me very much. I prefer, though, not to watch pain be inflicted on myself, so I just look at the wall when I'm having blood taken or skin biopsied or whatever, and then it doesn't bother me either. My philosophy is lie there and think of England, right?
The dentist was having none of this. As I stared at the blinding light of the dentist's chair, she was convinced I wanted narration. I don't know if she was trying to be helpful, if it's a woman thing to want to tell and know exactly what's about to happen to you, or if she was just frustrated at my impassiveness and took it as a personal goal to make me freak out at that point.
"This is gonna hurt," she would say at first, before she would do something. She did it a few times, just as I was drifting off.
Goddamn. Don't say that. Why would you say that?
Don't medical people understand there's no advantage to knowing something awful is about to be done to you? It would be so much better if check-ups and exams were just done at random, as a surprise, while you're shopping at the grocery store. Like you're reaching for the organic lettuce and someone just ninja-jumps from behind the sprinklers and jabs you in the neck with a needle or sticks a camera up your butt.
Anyway, I wouldn't respond; I wasn't gonna give her the satisfaction.
So then it became, "This is gonna really hurt, this is gonna feel bad."
I smiled politely.
After a while, it was "This is gonna be a bad one! This one is gonna make you suffer!"
I pretended to be asleep.
"You're gonna really feel this one! This is terrible! I'm being incompetent with my dentistry to cause you this pain! You might die!"
I glanced at New Yorker cartoons and softly chuckled. (I carry random New Yorker cartoons in the elastic of my boxers for just such occasions).
"I'm gonna kill you! I'm gonna kill you! I'm gonna kill you with my dentistry!"
"You take HMO, right?"
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