I was sitting in the waiting room, no form this time; one missed appointment and one attempted consultation with a Doctor had seen me sent straight back to the skin specialist I’d encountered on my first visit to the clinic. A perfect scenario for everyone in between who therefore didn’t have to deal with my problem, examining my genitals it seems was not the reason they chose a career in medicine over a fulfilling social life. Still this is the nature of their work, something they’re accustomed to surely? I searched possible reasons for shirking the duty; perhaps the current bureaucracy’s love of figures and fixed targets could have made tricky cases the scourge of the NHS system? Non-uniform growths and irritating rashes left to be passed around between departments, never settling anywhere long enough to be classified or to permanently scar anybodies figures. Looking around at the waiting room amongst my fellow infected I decided to pick up a magazine rather than make any attempt to share my witless irony.
The National Geographic in hand told me scientific tales of the revolutionary evolution of evolutionary theory. My mood was changing; from vaguely sarcastic I was becoming more suitably scared. Evolution, it seems, doesn’t have to progress slowly over thousands of years. I began to fret, perhaps my ailments are in fact evolution in reverse; something never to be cured, nature successfully removing me from the potential gene pool of the next generation by swathing my member with an arbitrary vague redness, a redness that terrifies the life out of both potential mates and target ticking hospital administrators everywhere. My face was growing long as I sat and worried, turning the page I tried to lift my mood by taking in the stupendous photography offered up by the magazine in question, the head of a North American mustang met my eyes.
The next eyes I looked up to see were those of a nurse I’d met the last time I was here, nice to see a familiar face, I begin to wonder what she must think of familiar faces at this clinic. Anyway she leads me through the corridors of the newly opened, barely completed building to the consultation room where the Doctor is waiting. Along with a third member of staff, she’s training, will be there to watch, to learn. Her first lesson concerns the layout of doctor’s surgeries and particularly examination tables as she turns round to face more of me than she might have hoped at this stage of proceedings.
“Maybe the table needs to be in a different place” pipes up the doctor with her first moment of real insight into the whole situation. With this the three of them come closer to examine me whilst I try to imagine how the fresh new ceiling will look after a few more episodes in this particular room.
“OK so you can see the reddened areas here, this is what we’re looking at, oh we could take some pictures!”
“What? Pictures, really?”
“Yes, they can be very useful for medical students. Its OK there’s a consent form you can sign to specify where you want them to be shown.”
“Can you promise you won’t tag me in any?”
“…”
“Nurse do you know where the camera is? OK thank you, she’s just getting the camera.”
Obviously its great to have the doctor explain exactly what’s going on to you but I thought this was perhaps a little far. Until she went further.
“OK, so what I’m going to do is point the camera at err, at it, and take some photos OK?”
“Err, yeah I guess.”
“OK I just need to turn the camera on, that’s it, OK now I need a special mode.”
“Not the zoom I hope?”
It’s now becoming clear that it is the role of nurses to provide a little relief giving laughter, the good doctor remains focused on the task before her, a task which appears hugely challenging, even for a PHD graduate to whom I have entrusted the well being of this oh so delicate area of my body.
“I need to find that little flower. Where’s the flower option?”
“Macro mode? Blimey, detail.”
“OK got it. Now I’m going to turn this light off because we don’t want it glaring at the camera do we?”
“I’ll make it sure it isn’t.”
“…”
The doctor’s getting snap happy, the trainee however has a far more interesting role. Namely ensuring my cock is presented in a variety of different poses, ‘Yes the artistic direction is superb, just look at this one Jennifer, it screams tired dejection yet the eye appears full of insight into a woman’s inner workings’.
“OK and one more, make it face me, that’s it. Lovely.” Indeed. “OK get dressed and come and have a seat.”
Returning to my seat we discuss potential creams before settling on a bi-opsy. Which will involve a piece of my penis being plucked away.
“OK so make an appointment on your way out and I’ll see you next week.”
“Right. And what about those happy snaps you’ve just taken, who’ll see those?”
“Oh yes the consent form. Now let me see, you said you be happy for them to be used for medical purposes yes? Good, I’ll just tick that. And for the general public you said no.”
“Right.”
“So that’s OK?”
“No!”
“Oh right, but in text books yes? On medical display boards, yes? On the internet?”
“Will there be any in National Geographic?”
“...OK I’ve put yes, just sign here.”
I duly sign. Feeling I’ve somehow lost round two. The doctor is less timid, less judgemental than on my last visit, yet she’s still unable to communicate effectively. I leave thinking that this is perhaps all an act, an elaborate ploy. After all, I’ve signed myself up to bi-opsy that I know very little about and may in fact only help her own research and teaching rather than my ailing member, and sold the photographic rights for, well, for nothing. I resolve to discover more on my next visit. Which piece exactly will she remove? How will she accomplish such a feat without causing me immense pain? Will I be able to enjoy sex again any time soon? And, merely as a simple after thought, is she actually any closer to a diagnosis?!
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