Sitting in the waiting room, I was surrounded by the most interesting collection of people that I’ve ever been around. None of them appeared to be sick or injured in any obvious way (to be fair, I suppose I didn’t either) A few of them were swatting at invisible flies or scratching non-existent rashes, and some of them stank of beer and B.O. I tried to ignore them all as best as I could while I skimmed through a very outdated Sports Illustrated with the headline ‘Browns Optimistic about Upcoming Season’. Well, maybe it wasn’t that outdated, but it was pretty old.
After about forty minutes I was called to the back and a nurse took my basics. My weight and blood pressure are up a little. Maybe I should get off the computer and move around every once in a while. I sat, without a magazine this time, for another twenty minutes before I saw the doctor. He walked in and got right down to business, asking me to be a little more specific about what was bothering me.
“I’m feeling kind of run down lately,” I told him. “It’s hard to be specific. I’m just a bit lethargic and sleeping more, but I’m not depressed or anything like that. I was thinking maybe some of those steroids that the insurance company pays for might make me feel a little better.”
The doctor went on to discuss the battery of tests involved before such treatment can begin, and some of the costs, which may or may not be covered by my insurance provider. I was kind of surprised by his answer, given the nature of his business. “You’re serious,” I asked him incredulously. “You wanna talk about doing a bunch of tests on me when you’re clearly running a pill mill. Hell, if I came in here and told you my back hurt, I’d walk out with my pockets stuffed full of OxyContin.”
The genuinely shocked look on his face made me wonder if he may have missed his true calling as an actor. The guy really looked as if I’d just slapped him. He told me he was running a legitimate medical facility and never prescribed anything that wasn’t “necessary and appropriate.”
“Sure buddy,” I told him, “and all those people scratching themselves raw in your waiting room have skin conditions. They’re not here because they’re junkies looking for a fix.” So, I got kicked out of a pill mill and I’m not welcome back. “I’m not a junkie- why would I come back?” I asked out in the waiting room. This got me some dirty looks from a few of the regulars.
I went home and made an appointment to see a real doctor. I suppose you have to see a real doctor to get real medical treatment. If you want to get a bunch of pills to snort or shoot or whatever it is that people do with those things go to a “walk-in clinic.” You’ll get plenty. Or you could get in touch with me, they gave me a bunch of OxyContin before they made me leave.