On Doctors Orders

I am sick, I’m not sure if it’s sick in the head, real sick or pretend sick but I am not able to venture far enough from my pillow to guess. My mother keeps pestering me to go see the doctor but how do you tell your mother that your sweet caring considerate 60 year old female doctor is a raving lunatic.
It pretty much like the ‘Tailor story’ by Joey in ‘Friends’, you know the one where he gets ‘measured’! Well my doctor is much like that but in a nicer version.

Every time I see her I have to mention my non-existent boyfriend who I call ‘Frank’ and at present is traveling America, which surprises her as I have been with ‘Frank’ since I was 16 and first wanted to go on the pill and had to have a valid reason for needing contraception. You know, once when I had a slight drunken mishap the night before and I needed the morning after pill, she actually asked me to ring ‘Frank’ and have him come down and explain himself. Imagine your 60 year old doctor demanding to meet your imaginary boyfriend to know how he had got me into this predicament. Did she expect him to say ‘it was at this minute’ or maybe ‘when we did it this way’, although ‘Frank’ can’t say anything as he is about as real as Santa Clause (not real but does come around once a year to unload his presents). Well finally I succumbed to my mothers torture (she was reincarnated from a POW camp, I am convinced, she could mentally torture anyone to do anything and not even lift a finger in doing so).

Arriving at my doctor’s office I felt queasy but nothing prepared me for what was about to happen.

I explained to this kind old lady how my glands felt swollen and that my body joints felt stiff (classic flu symptoms really) but when she told me to the pop up on the bed in the nicest manner, I saw no problem.
Wrong choice, once cornered on the bed in the oldest room in the world she proceeded to remove my bra, shock registered on my face but she ignored and carried on examining my breast (this is for breast cancer I am aware but she does this every time I get sick, even when I am not sick). She has a fear that all young girls are going to die from breast cancer. As if I am not violated enough (I know a little exaggeration as she was just doing her job albeit not at the right moment) she decides that I need to be weighed.
Popping me on a great big weighing scale that has survived since the 1900’s she uses a wall chart (you know the one’s you see when your in primary school to measure your height – on this one even the numbers are fading), she then proceeds to match up my total, weight and height = EVER SO slightly obese!!
SORRY I sputter, (I have been watching my weight ever since Barry, a so called friend in school, told me I could be a double for Oprah Winfrey in her heyday if I didn’t be careful – I also laid off the fake tan around that time too).

Well much to my concern this loopy old woman is after now feeling me up, charging me €50 and is now telling me I am EVER SO SLIGHLTY OBESE.
I ask her to re-check, which she does and comes to same conclusion. Time to put my foot down, I explain to her that yes my weight is correct but the wall chart is wrong as I am not FOUR foot six, I am FIVE foot six, much to her dismay she rectifies her problem and proceeds to tell me I need to eat some lean meat to fatten up my bones.

In conclusion this week I have had the flu (I could have got over it without the help of a doctor or the torture of a mother), I have been on an imaginary trip with ‘Frank’ and I have been felt up, accused of being overweight and underweight and charged for the pleasure.
So next time your sick, stay in bed, drink your chicken soup and save your money.