I went to the head doctor today.
" 'Bout time", the world finally exhales.
Because, even after appointments/treatments by the handful of specialists, two acupuncturists, my beloved massage therapist, the bevy of dietitians, and a very skilled plastic surgeon, my health woes persist. (Find the one I haven't yet had the privilege of encountering. ;o)
I have to admit, the prospect of going to see the neurologist (technically one who deals with all things pertaining to the nervous system, but brain/head doctor sounds so much more titillating (specifically because there was a lot of definition #2 going on) and ominous (am I allowed double parentheses, make that, triple parentheses??)) did keep me up a bit last night. I wondered if he could read my mind or worse, see straight through my double layers with x-ray vision.
Hardly one to be unprepared, I psyched myself up for the visit with a brilliant strategy. You know the old go to for public speaking, when you envision your audience sitting before you naked? Yeah, well, I didn't want to try that one because I was pretty sure the good doctor was going to be a man well up in his years and trust me, I see enough sagging skin every time I happen by the mirror after my shower.
Plan B: My husband and I have personally known three friends that were/grew up to be neurosurgeons. One was a dear friend of my husband's, one we only hear news from occasionally but a wonderful man born and living in Germany. The one time I talked to him via phone, his English was good but heavy with a German accent. Ammunition #1.
In university I kept close to a tightly knit group of friends, for better or for worse. We loved each other but couldn't resist a good heckle at another's expense. One of our friends called in 'sick' to an event we were all obligated to go to but where else would he show up? The gym, in tiny spandex shorts, surrounded on the ellipticals by gals dressed exactly the same. The image of him in his girly workout gear was one that brought us many laughs in days to come. Ammunition #2.
As a teenager I was befriended by a med student who went to my church, one well on her way to finishing her specialty in neurosurgery. A mostly serious woman, she would often encourage me to set my ambitions in education high and pursue a degree in law or medicine. She thought I had what it took. She was a fashionista in her own right as well. Scoring designer duds at rock bottom prices at her favorite store, T.J. Maxx, she mixed and matched her quality pieces with an eye for a truly unique style. A style only she would wear, pairing mustard yellow A-line skirts with purple polka dotted shirts. Ammunition #3.
When the secretary escorted me to my appointed room with the doctor awaiting my arrival, I quickly steeled my nerves against intimidation. Simply by imagining my good doctor not naked, but as a German accented girly-boy wearing a garish combination of tiny spandex and purple polka dotted tie.
Worked like a charm!