My Bad Boy Doctor

1

Not again.

Most people can proudly boast they've never broken a bone—or if they have, it was something cool like a biker accident or being mugged in a Walmart parking lot. But me? I'm a magnet for bad luck. I could breathe and the sky would fall. I've broken my hip, my ass-bone, the base of my thumb, and the bridge of my nose, all by the tender age of twenty-three. Now, I'm in an urgent care center, praying to the Powers That Be that it's only a pulled muscle.

Somehow, I doubt it, but it doesn't stop me from casting my thoughts heavenward with the promise to do better in life. I can't afford to be out of work for another six to eight weeks. Since the start of the pandemic, I've been laid off, forced to move back home, and save up my unemployment money while I look for any way to get back on my feet. And now, here I am, lying on a random examination table in a dingy tiled room that smells like disinfectant, old people, and mold. Monitors beep, people scream like they're dying in battle, and nurses gossip past the curtains like no one else exists. We're ushered somewhere, forgotten while we patiently wait our turn to have an x-ray, receive a baggie of placebo pills, and are told to have a nice day as they take all of our money.

Still on the table, I stare at the flimsy square ceiling tiles as time stops moving. I pull out my phone to check the time and sigh. It's only been ten minutes, so I open a little fish-game app on my phone and wait for it to take its sweet time loading. I breeze through a few levels, get stuck, blow all my lives, and check the time again. This time, it's been a good half hour.

To be fair, medical facilities were already short staffed. Add underpaid for the nurses with a strong possibility for a lawsuit every time something goes wrong, and BAM! One less nurse to help the sick and injured. And on top of it all, the pandemic made everything infinitely slower. A two hour visit at an urgent care now lasted up to six hours, and the ER? I'd be there for a full day, assuming a room came available.

Much as I'd love to be on my merry way, I'm not a priority. Not only because I'm not ill, but also the fact I'm here all the time. I could fart and find myself with a random injury, and the moment I hobble my broken ass inside, the receptionist shakes her head before asking, "Again?"

I'm not going to mean like everyone else. For one thing, they'll see me when they see me, and being an every day post pandemic Karen is the fastest way to piss someone off. For another, I've been in and out of the doctor's office since childhood, so this is old news. I'm used to the wait.

Then, lo and behold, either because it's a gift from above or a curse, I feel a sneeze coming on. And what does my dumb-ass self try to do when pinching my nose doesn't work? I try to control the sneeze, thinking by some miracle it won't be so bad. So it builds up as I brace for impact before...ACHOO!

OH MY GOD, WHAT THE FUCK DID I DO IN LIFE TO DESERVE THIS KIND OF PAIN!

There's this moment where time conveniently stops to take a snapshot of my suffering, and I can't breathe. It's pain like no other, and I swear, child-birth couldn't possibly be this painful (I mean, maybe, but I've never actually had children? Besides, that's what drugs are for). I gasp, curl into the fetal position, and squeeze my eyes shut, hoping this was just an pulled muscle. Then another one sneaks up, and I'm ready to die because I can't survive a second round of this. And because I'm the definition of the crazy person who does the same thing over and over again, expecting different results, I try to make this sneeze less violent. And let me tell you, I feel like being stabbed would be preferable. I can't even cry because this shit hurts so bad, so I lie on the table as I try not to pass out. The last thing I need is to add a concussion to my list of bad luck. That, and blood on the floor is so the murder-mysteries 90s trope.

And thank baby Jesus, this is when the curtain zings open on the rack as I continue gasping like this is the best orgasm ever that I'm definitely not having. And what do you know, it's a new doctor, unaware of my history. He's every bit the guy you'd see on the cover of a GQ magazine—rock hard abs, black hair, two days without a shave, crystal-lake blue eyes, and a stethoscope as the kitchen sink thrown in. But see, this isn't Heaven, because I'm still hurting, and this Greek God is way out of my league. Maybe I can take a mental picture of him and bust out the toy later? I mean, once I'm feeling better. I don't want to come back and admit I made the injury worse by masturbating to a fantasy of Doctor Sexy over here.