David James Gets Unstitched

This being the 5th day anniversary of my latest rugby injury, it was time for me to get the stitches removed from my head. The problem is that I don't have a primary care doctor. I'm one of those that actually have medical insurance but rarely use it since I rarely need medical attention. That is, until today.

Since I didn't want to tempt fate and wait 5 hours in the same ER that put the stitches in, I needed to find another trained professional to remove them. Given my demanding standards, I decided to select a doctor using a weighted formula of key requirements - distance and an opening on Thursday morning.

As luck would have it, I found a doctor that satisfied the proximity (2 miles) and availability (10:00 opening) criteria. Before finalizing the appointment, the receptionist sensing I wasn't their type of patient announced "you know, this is a family practice."

What the fuck does this mean? Is it a husband and wife team of doctors, with their kids as the medical assistants? Or is "family practice" code for vagina doctor? God, I'm stupid. But at this point in time, I don't really care if I end up butt naked in stirrups just so long as the doctor removes these goddamned stitches from my face.

As soon as I get there, I start to feel out of place. The entire waiting room is full women and the office is decorated in some sort of country cottage motif. Let’s check out the magazine selection -- “Glamour” … “Good Housekeeping” … “O.” Fuck, where’s the 2-year old “Sports Illustrated” issue that every reception room has? Shit, I’d even settle for “Golf Digest,” and I hate golf.

My fears appear to be confirmed when I start filling out the paperwork for new patients. On the medical history questionnaire, the 4th and 5th questions are “Date of your last PAP smear” and “Date of your last mammogram,” respectively. Goddammit, I am going to end up in those stirrups.

Oh well, I’m here and I’m desperate, so I decide to just suck it up. After completing the paperwork, “Sabrigua” (who will end up taking my vitals) feels she knows me well enough to say, “wow you don’t look like you’re doing well.” I mutter, “I’m okay” but I’m really thinking “No shit, Sherlock. It takes a really keen eye to notice the ten stitches in my dome. Oh and what’s up with your goofy name? Did you make that up yourself?”

After exchanging pleasantries and taking vitals, I finally met with the doctor, who seemed nice and normal enough, although she never heard of rugby. She didn’t even make me disrobe, even though I offered. Oh well, I guess chicks don’t dig scars after all. Ten minutes later, my stitches were gone and I was left to admire the latest pinkish scar on my face which the doctor noted, “kind of matches the other one you have.”

Thanks doc. Can’t wait to see you the next time I split my skull open so I can bite my tongue again next time someone says something brilliant like “wow, that must have hurt!”

BTW, I will have pictures available soon for those that are interested in my Frankenstein-esque appearance. I plan on getting wallets made and will send them out soon!