Going to the Doctor with Daddy… By Whitney Farmer – Un Pop Culture

February 2, 2012 Whitney Farmer 9 Comments

Whitney runs a rock music venue on the beach in L.A.. She has an M.B.A, and her Dad and Oscar just celebrated their 84^th year.

The cussing started within a hundred yards of turning out of the driveway and joining the outside world.  Most of it was based on it being how stupid people are and yes, I suppose that it was true. They should have known better than to do to Dad what they did with their mail trucks and beachcomber bikes and rebellious dogs on leashes.

Most of it was in Canadian.  Because of it being unleashed across a national boundary in what I guess is a different language, and because of the exchange rate, it was released into the atmosphere and wasn’t counted by God as real curses that would stick to the poor stupid people who were on the same street that day.

Dad would drive surprisingly slow, but then surprisingly fast immediately before it was time to turn a corner or slow down.  I later asked Cydney who is the closest to resonating with his genetic twirl why this was.  She said that it was to keep from getting rear-ended.  It made perfect sense, but the G-force made the pleural blister on my left lung sling in unexpected directions in a way that I hope to one day forget.

Dad voiced his displeasure against the increased parking rate with the girl from the “Del Rey” ‘hood who took his money and seemed not to hear him.  And the indolent parking attendants with no pride in their work were of particular interest to him and received the near promise of sharp actions.  The only deterrent was me in the front seat who would need to be left on the sidewalk if he was going to have them “pile in to take a drive” and see how dead end-y and lacking in spaces was the path they had directed us to.

I wandered a bit when we came out of the elevator from the parking garage.  Dad shook his head tenderly at me for being such a novice to the whole medical scene.  I didn’t even know the name of the doctor I was going to.  Dad rescued me. He led me in the true way, gently holding my hand as he opened the doors, even though my germs just might run up his sleeve and jump in his nose.

When we arrived in the waiting room, the clock on the wall said 11:57.  My appointment was at high noon.  “Excellent!” said Dad.  We were on time and the cussing worked.

In the Waiting Room, we sick people waited and tried to stay conscious and/or not throw up.  Wheezing, I sat next to Dad as the overhead sound system piped in the smooth groove of Marvin Gaye singing “Sexual Healing”.

Dad had to be pushed out of the exam room to give me privacy to go through the ordeal of getting weighed accurately.  Over the nurse’s shoulder, he was heard to say, “Tell the Doc ‘Hi’”.

When the doctor came in, he opened up his laptop and began to type my responses as he interviewed me about my medical history and current crisis.  He asked me, “How are you feeling?”  And I answered, “A wee bit peuwley.”  Under Race/Ethnicity, the doctor typed: Canadian.

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Quote of the Blog, from Dad, when I told him that a stunning woman with Steven Soderbergh at the now-shuttered Le Dome wore a macramé halter dress: “Excellent! That’s the way it should be!”