Wednesday, 2:15 p.m.
In the middle of analyzing the results of an MRI, the orthopedist takes a piss. This is a confident and telling move.
Here’s a doctor who:
Can recite to his patient the results of images that show where the right wrist and elbow were fractured and/or sprained;
Can remember that both injuries weren’t that serious, and can do so using medical terms like “bone,” “cartilage,” and “wrist”;
All while unzipping his fly, aiming his prick towards a toilet and balancing a brick-sized phone between his neck and shoulder to pee.
Even more impressive: he carries on the conversation as if he’s not pissing; as if I won’t notice the trickle in the background. That distracting stream sounds like a thin waterfall, a majestic fountain I had never experienced.
“Let’s keep your appointment for next Friday,” he trails off, then lets out a grunt like it’s Tool Time.
“Sure,” I respond. “Hey, doc, are you taking a piss?”
An awkward beat.
“I’m sorry. What? I didn’t quite hear you,” the doctor rambles. “I think the reception is bad where I’m located, which isn’t the bathroom. Anyway, see you next Friday.”
He hangs up.
“Fuck,” I curse myself. “I really embarrassed myself this time. This doctor is going to think I’m some sort of pervert. He wasn’t taking a wee.
This doctor was definitely hiking and found a thin waterfall.”
I would call back, but I don’t have hisdirect number. This will have to wait.
Friday, 8:15 a.m.
A nurse asks my weight. I lie. I’m normally not this rebellious, but today, I’m throwing caution to the wind. Today, I ask this doctor where I can find that thin waterfall.
The doctor rushes in. He rolls through a general questionnaire. How are you? Any changes in pain? Which arm was it again?
“This guy is good,” I think to myself. “He’s trying to get one over on me—make me think that I don’t remember how he took my call while walking around in some sublime forest with a diet waterfall.”
I follow the doc’s lead then hit him with a surprise left hook not even Ali could see coming.
“Cut the shit, doc,” I exclaim, bumping out my chest for effect. "Where’d you find such a small waterfall?”
He blankly stares.
“Don’t play dumb,” I say. “When you called me on Wednesday, you were telling me how my arm and wrist would be OK. That’s fine. But while you were saying all that, there was something in the background.”
I pause for effect, hoping he’ll remember that I’m more than a bunch of charts in a manilla folder.
I’m the guy who heard he lives in an enchanted land with streams of water as thin as wheat.
“You were talking and there was a *ssssssss* sound in the background,” I clarified. Before he could explain himself, I interrupted: “I did the math. I know you’re not the type to piss while you’re on the phone with a patient. We don’t know each other like that. So, there’s only one answer.”
My eyes grow wider as I peer into the vast empty that is his orthopedist soul.
“You walked past a razor-thin waterfall. Thinnest one I’ve ever heard,” I declare before sitting back, satisfied with my intuition.
The orthopedist hims and haws while scratching at the back of his neck.
I address him again to cut the tension: “Now, doc, my wrist and arm? I know they’ll be fine with a little ice and a little time. I know that. But you gotta give me something I don’t know. You gotta give me the location of that fuckin’ waterfall.”
The tension is thick, like two slices of Texas toast-thick.
“I don’t know of any waterfalls,” he admits. “I don’t live near any, so it’s impossible that I was talking to you while walking by one. I was probably in disposed while talking to you earlier this week.”
“In disposed?” I ask, looking for the meaning of these words.
“Taking a whizz,” he admits with a sigh.
I’m at a loss for words. I had seen this orthopedist twice now. On both occasions, I never thought he would be the type to urinate and talk on the phone at the same time.
I thought this doctor had pizzaz, what with his neon green WWJD bracelet and brown pennyloafers. Even his doctor’s jacket screamed “1994 Stetson ad,” which means, “I might be rough, but I won’t piss while talking on the phone.”
“May I continue?” The doctor asks while I tried to make sense of the world.
I nod uncomfortably, “yes.” Then, I blacked out. I don’t remember a thing except that feeling of deception. When I came to, the doctor was asking if I had any questions.
“How could you?” I scoff.
I storm out, not even scheduling a follow-up. I drive to the Chick-Fil-A, a mere 700 feet from the hospital parking lot, and stress-eat 12 chicken nuggets, a Chick-Fil-A sandwich with cheese and large waffle fries. I down it with a Coke Zero—the type of order a 16-year-old would binge after a break-up. I drive home, blaring butt rock. When I get home, my wife asks if something is wrong.
“Only everything,” I yell, slamming the bedroom door.
Friday, 2:30 p.m.
My phone wakes me up with its incessant ding-a-ding ring tone. UNKNOWN NUMBER, the display reads. I answer it, still half-asleep from the fast food feast/fiasco.
“Hello?” The voice asks. I’ve heard this voice before. Sure enough, this is the ortho-“pee”-dist, or “Dr. Piss,” as I now call him.
“Look…I want to apologize,” the doctor says. “I multi-task far too much. There isn’t enough time in the day. Heh. And sometimes, I take calls while I use the bathroom. I hope you can forgive me.”
I hold back.
“I understand if you can’t, but…yeah, just wanted to personally call and let you know that I’m sorry…and that we need to schedule that follow-up. Make sure you’re all good to go!”
His voice rises with the last statement. I try not to take the bait.
“Would a month from now work? I’ve got the 26th open. There’s an 8:15, 10:15, 2:30—prime slots for a follow-up visit!”
“Sure…2:30. I’ll take that,” I give in. The truth is I don’t remember what he told me about my injury at the end of the last appointment.
“I’m glad we could get this taken care of, and again, I’m sorry,” he replies.
The apologetic tone gives the call a calm feel that is interrupted by the click of an automatic flush, wooshing toilet water on top of itself. The orthopedist begins cursing the automated toilet.
“That is not what you think it is,” the doctor suggests.
His voice grows more distant as I look at my phone, not so much surprised, but disappointed. I can hear the doctor reaching for my confirmation, yelling into his phone, trying to more intensely apologize. His voice muffles under the sound of the toilet then the click of my red “End Call” display button. I sit up straight on the futon where I had been napping and look toward the sunset, a single tear stretching down my cheek.
“My arm and wrist will be forever broken,” I tell myself, holding back more tears. “…and so will my heart.”
FIN
Hahaah not ortho-pee-dist 🤣