"Hello Muddah.
Hello Fadduh.
Can I please not -
See one more doc-tuh?"
With all due respect to Allan Sherman and Lou Busch (writers of the famous song, "A Letter from Camp"), part of my summer has been rained upon by visits to doctors. Even as a parent pushing forty, I still daydream about a summer that would be like a Jimmy Buffett song, sun-bathing in the warm waters of the Caribbean sipping on a cocktail, the distant sounds of steel drums echoing across the sea.
But instead, my destinations have involved those in lab coats examining my head and skin.
Let me explain.
In my quest to stay in shape, I have subscribed to Tony Horton's "P90X" program. However, the night before Memorial Day, I fell off my chin up bar and slammed the back of my head on the concrete basement floor.
I was always taught if you are going to do something, do it right. So just to make sure I was REALLY injured...
The metal chin-up bar then dislodged and struck me in the temple. I forgot the names of my kids, asked my wife every minute if I lost consciousness, and then blamed her for the accident, telling my emergency room physician I must stay in shape because, quote, "My wife works with a bunch of hot, rich doctors." (Seems like there was some head issues in there before the head issues...)
After a week of weariness and headaches, I was back to what I would consider normal. The chin-up bar has been retired, and is now collecting dust in a distant, dark corner of the basement.
Not to be outdone, the rest of my body wanted attention, and that help would come from an evil plant.
Trees in our front yard are often riddled with vines, which I decided needed to be pulled down. A woman walking her dog happened to notice my gardening exercise, and notified me that I was "pulling down poison ivy." My wife reassured this stranger - and then me - that it indeed was NOT poison ivy, but "Virginia Creeper." Forty-eight hours later, dark, menacing rashes appeared on my arms and legs.
If it was socially acceptable, I would drink Cortisone cream.
The itch became unbearable, so I rushed off to an "Urgent Care" clinic. When the doctor opened the door, she said, "Oh wow. Oh my. You need help." (I wish that was the first time I can say I ever heard that...)
I went through a prescription of anti-itch cream in two days, and when I went back to the pharmacy for a refill, the employee says the insurance company won't let me have another batch until the end of August. Of course, the insurance company knows exactly when the itch will stop, so it made better sense just to listen to them.
Note to self: Jump in poison ivy next month so I can use new tube.
My mother often tells me the older you get, the more visits to the doctor. I turn forty in about two months, so isn't a little early to be filling out my "frequent doctor card?"
Summers are short in New England, but if this is what the doctor prescribes, then maybe I'm ready for fall. Oh wait - I already did that - off a chin-up bar.
Maybe I'll just sit on the couch until the first day of winter...
