The doctor is not in

If you ever watched Hee-Haw, you probably remember the skit where the old guys would sing the sad-sack song, “Gloom, Despair and Agony on Me,” which featured the line, “If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.”

Well, I’m in one of those streaks. In the past 10 days, an overflowing toilet destroyed my house, a computer virus wrecked my home computer, and a mechanic told me he thinks my beloved chick-magnet Plymouth mini-van needs a new engine. Just call me Job. It’s a miracle my dog hasn’t died yet.

I have gone through all this while dealing with incessant abdominal and back pain, so last week I put aside my stubbornness and reluctantly went to see a doctor. Did you know that there are a lot of “judge” shows on TV in the afternoon? I didn’t either, but I endured four of them back-to-back-to-back-to-back in the waiting room. I tried to ignore it, but they had the volume cranked up to just below the level of an Iron Maiden concert.

What a lovely time I had in the waiting room. I spent two-and-a-half hours of thumbing through an old Golf Digest and the latest copy of some Jehovah’s Witness magazine. I now know how to handle short putts, and I understand how dinosaurs existed even though they’re not mentioned in the Bible. Finally I was called back to see the doctor – or so I thought.

First of all, when you go back they weigh you, which is patently unfair. I stepped on the scale wearing work clothes, heavy shoes, a sports coat, and I had keys, a cell-phone and a blackberry in my pockets. So I dispute the findings of that scale. I told the nurse, “You know, I usually weigh myself naked.” She threatened to call security and led me into the examining room.

I sat in the cold, windowless examining room for a while, feeling like a criminal suspect awaiting interrogation and amusing myself with a tongue depressor. Finally, the door opened, and in walked not a doctor, but a “physician’s assistant.” This is a trend I don’t care for. What is a physician’s assistant, anyway? Is it somebody who goes to WebMD a lot, or watches “House”? Why aren’t they actual doctors?

When this physician’s assistant walked in, I realized why I had been forced to wait so long for her. Apparently she had to wait until algebra class was over, and then catch the school bus over to the doctor’s office. Seriously, she looked like she was maybe 15 years old. The “Hannah Montana” stethoscope gave me pause. I feared that if she asked me to drop my pants, Chris Hansen and a “Dateline NBC’ camera crew would burst into the room.

I suppose you could say I’m mildly sexist in a couple of ways. OK, in a lot of ways, but I prefer male doctors, and I want them to be older than me. How could this child diagnose me? I have bunions older than her.

Well, I’ll give her credit. She had some blood drawn, ran some tests, and when I went back the next week she said that she believes I have pancreatitis. She gave me some medicine and told me what to do, and so far I feel a little better. I had actually diagnosed myself before going to see her, and her opinion agreed with mine, but since I’m not allowed to write prescriptions (wouldn’t that be awesome?), it was necessary to go to the doctor’s office for confirmation.

The female Doogie Howser also told me that my cholesterol was bad, so she has me taking something for that, too. I’m taking more pills than Judy Garland now, so in a couple of weeks I should either be much better or checking myself into rehab. That might not be such a bad idea – maybe when I get out, my house, car and computer will all be fixed.