“The doctor’s just phoned, she’s going to be ten minutes late.”
I'm thinking this is perhaps the reason mobile phone’s are rarely allowed in waiting rooms, just as the infuriating monotony of a ticking clock is conspicuous only by its absence in this particular hive of inactivity and expressionless faces. To be fair to the doctor this early December day has seen the winter’s first snow of sorts, though it is hardly the sort to leave one lost or stranded, for that it could not be an excuse.
On this my fourth visit, the doctor, when she does eventually arrive, is able to call me by my first name only. It’s a degree of friendly familiarity which will probably work in her favour as she begins to reveal the rather sorry facts.
“OK, sorry I’m late, I’m ill you see. Now I’m not sure if they have your results.”
“Oh.”
“Just let me check, I’ll just turn the computer on, oh it’s not working. Hang on. Ah yes here we are, ‘No record of sample’ oh.”
“Oh?”
“Well that’s a little strange; perhaps it’s not on the system yet. I’ll call the nurse in here to try to find out.”
“Yes, please do.”
She picks up the phone whilst I try to decide whether this is all good fun or whether I should be terrified by the idea of having another hole cut into my penis. As the fear builds in my head (ahem) I’m reminded of a phone conversation I had with the nurse in between these clinic appointments about bi-opsy after care;
“Well, it looks OK. Should I be washing the area as normal now?”
“Maybe leave it a day, what exactly did the doctor explain to you?”
“Err, very little actually.”
“OK. Right. Well what it is, you know those machines at the fairground?”
“…”
“You know, those grabber ones where you can win a soft toy?”
“…”
“Hello?”
“Go on.”
“Well what we do, after we’ve numbed the area, we reach down like one of those grabber arm thingies and basically tear a bit of the flesh out, just like it’s one of those machines.”
“The ones that take all you money and never actually give you what you want?”
“That’s right.”
The nurse enters the consultation room with huge stick of pink candy floss and a pocket full of arcade machine tokens. No soft toy though.
“Hi nurse, the computer says there’s no record of the sample. Now I filled the form in. Did the sample go in the bag?”
“Yes definitely, I remember.”
“Hmm. Are you sure you labeled it.”
“Yes positive, it can’t be my fault.”
“Nor mine, I completed the form. Who else would have had it?”
“The porter?”
“Ah yes, it must be the porter’s fault.”
Unfortunately, apportioning blame does little to pin point the whereabouts of the piece of my penis which has gone missing, they currently appear oblivious to this fact. In desperation more than hope I employ the tactic developed by mothers everywhere in such situations, admittedly situations where the lost item is something a little less sensitive; logic and reason.
“Where was it last seen? Surely it needs to be in a fridge of some kind?”
“No it’s soaked in formaldehyde so it can’t ‘go off’ so to speak, though it seems to have done so. Ha.”
I decide to change tack.
“Maybe someone stole it for sausage meat what with soaring pork prices.”
“…”
“…”
“Nurse, do you know the number for the department in charge of the tests and readings, we could try ringing them directly couldn’t we?”
“...”
“Ask them what they had for tea last night.”
“Hi I’m phoning regarding sample number 58546…….OK…….You have no record of ever receiving it?!......Right.”
“?!”
Between them these two departments have managed to lose a piece of my penis, and how is this delicate news confirmed to me? By allowing me to over-hear the doctor, with no more gravitas than a mild annoyance in her voice, repeating the fact to a presumably very sheepish colleague. On noting my brow has become as creased as other parts of my anatomy which she now knows more intimately, she decides to raise her tone slightly against her assailant;
“Look this was a penal bi-opsy. I don’t think we want to have to do this whole process again!” God forbid if she has to do it again. “OK yes, please try to find it.”
She returns to me. My smile shows signs of finding amusement in the situation; however my eyes, vacant and staring straight out towards the rain sodden tarmac of the staff car park, belie the true state of my nerves.
“Well perhaps for now if you’d like to come behind the screen I can examine how the healing process has progressed. Oh excuse me a minute.”
I allow her time to sneeze, as I wait with my pants around my ankles. I fidget with the ‘dignity paper’ making sure I’m properly covered as she splutters another cough. Finally I sit bolt up right as I hear her violently wretch on the other side of the thin curtain. Resisting the temptation to enquire as to what she may be choking on, I instead lie back and try to remain calm. She tries to help this process, by telling me to remain calm. In fact, I’m relieved to hear her praise my penis, or is it her own work?
“Oh yes, that’s lovely.”
“Thank you.”
We sit back down at her desk and she begins to explain the same thing she explained when I sat down at her desk the last time I was here; that we could use creams, or do a bi-opsy if the sample from the last one isn’t found.
“Would you like the creams?”
“Well why bother if we still aren’t sure of the problem? That was the whole point of the excruciating pain you put me through right?”
“Well exactly I understand your point which is why maybe you’d like to take the creams?”
“Isn’t that the exact opposite of my point doctor?”
The phone rings. She mutters a few words down the line before turning to me.
“They’ve found the sample!”
“Great, how was it?”
“They didn’t say. So if you’d like to make an appointment for next week on your way out, I’ll see you then.”
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