Doctor doctor

Many years ago, when I was rather younger and less cynical than I am now, I heard a song that still rings in my head even today when the occasion fits. It was by the Thomson Twins and was called Doctor doctor. It had a neatly synthetic and syncopated rhythm, as did almost everything the group ever did, and while it spoke of various problems that I, for one, have not faced and do not face and, I hope, will never face, it keyed a response in me that was almost instinctive. And the identification has become so strong that every time I meet a doctor, I hear the song and vice versa.

And the last couple of weeks have been full of doctors visits, much as I dislike them. It takes a great deal to push me into a doctor’s office or even near a clinic or hospital and even more for me to look a needle in its eye (ooooh, now there’s a neat one!). but the vertigo got alarming enough for me to voluntarily (I know no one who knows me well will believe that, but trust me, it happened) ask, albeit tentatively, about a doctor and when he would make his appearance and so I finally went to see the chappie who visits the office. Yes, I admit I was kinda shoved into his room squeaking a little in protest, but I behaved thereafter, even accepting the cute little pills that he told me I should take.

Of course, that good behaviour stopped after the third or so day, when I wasn’t sure whether I was awake or dead, since the vertigo had me completely disoriented and the pills had me sedated to the point of not being sure whether I was asleep or dead. So I went to an old family friend, also a doctor, but a known devil, in a manner of speaking, who gave me a thorough examination, drew vast quantities of blood out of my rather deep-set and fragile veins and told me to behave myself (why do they always do that?) and take the medicines he was prescribing. Again, I behaved. Impeccably. Until I decided that I wanted a drug-free existence and cut the dose of more cute little pills (these were littler, so cuter) to minimal.

And even more good behaviour was shown in my change of routine. Instead of getting into my car and driving myself to wherever I wanted to be at any point in time – which I do manage to do sometimes, leaving the driver behind to play cards, gossip or sleep - I resisted any of my better impulses and either walked to wherever it was I wanted to be at that point in time, or waited for the driver to fetch the car, drive me there and then bring me back. All very boring and, to my mind, a total waste of time, energy and effort. So this morning, in spite of many protests that Father was making and, frankly, that my own instinct was yelling into my ears – they do not ring, I assured both doctors, they just stick out more than I like – I drove myself to the grocery store. It was an urgent errand I was on: I needed mozarella and mushrooms.

Yes, I know, I could have potentially and possibly harmed not just myself, but others around me if I had had a dizzy spell en route. I could have got disoriented to the point of not knowing where I was going. I could have caused much environmental damage by crashing into a tree or, worse, a garbage truck. And I would have lost not only my head and my cheese, but my nerve as well. I know all that. And I know I was stupid. Blame it on doctors and their cute little pills.

Better yet, blame it on the song.