Violated

Okay, I had another dr. appointment today at the wound center for that ongoing leg thing. Last week my dr. said to me that he wanted ultrasounds done on both my legs to check for any possible problems caused by the built up fluids flowing back up my legs. Okay, no problem. It is precautionary, and I am all about being precautious. So I go in this morning, they cut the boots off (which they have to do weekly) and send me down to have the tests done. THIS is where the fun begins. The lady at the front desk of the wound center office gives me directions. I follow them and end up at the desk that she described to me. But they have no record of me having an appointment. I tell her that they scheduled it last week from the wound center. She searches and nothing. She asks around the office if there was an add-on. Nothing. So she tells me to have a seat and they will figure this out. Eventually it is discovered that I was sent to the wrong place. The lady who sent me here comes down to lead me to the correct place. I get there at 10:09am. I know this because my appointment was for 10am and I asked the front desk what time it was so I could sign in. I sign in and have a seat, and wait.

And wait.





And WAIT.

Now Wifey needs the truck, and I was told by the wound center that I should be done by 11am no problem. I still have to go back up to them and get new boots. I finally get tired of waiting after I hear them tell some guy that just signed in that the wait shouldn't be more than about 15-20 minutes. I chuckle because I have already been waiting for 52 minutes (yup I was counting). I see them call back the third person that arrived after me. I ask them when I am going to be brought back. They ask me when I signed in. I tell her it has been almost an hour. She says "nuh-uh" (thank God she used layman's terms. If she had denied me in dr. speak I would probably still be there scratching my head in confusion). I show her where my name is on the now discarded list that had been all scratched off except for my name (it is folded back to expose the next page that is about 15 names deep with 13 of them scratched off, which means that the patient has been seated in the back). She asks for my insurance card. SHE COULDN'T HAVE DONE THAT A DAMN HOUR AGO?!?!? But at last I am brought back to the men's changing room and given the "Holy crap he's friggin' HUGE" robe to put on (they had to go to another room to get it. I am pretty sure that it is usually reserved for women who have entered their fourth trimester. And yes I know I said "fourth" and "trimester". THAT is the joke dammit!

And now we get to the violation. I was told to strip down to my underbritches (I was allowed to keep my shirt on under my robe. Yay for humility!), an I was taken to an examination room. There I met Jan (pronounced "Youn", like "young without the final "G" sound), the East German woman who obviously moved to the states once the Wall fell and all the torture jobs got outsourced to the Phillipines. She has me lay on the examination table, and pulls out a sheet to lay across my upper legs. I am thinking that we are in for a relatively simple procedure, so I put my head back. And then...

I know that women subject themselves to all sorts of degrading exams when they see their GYN. I don't know the precise nature of these exams, but I have heard enough talk to know that stirrups are not fun and that there is apparently some tool that looks like a duck's bill made of metal that remains at a constant temperature of 24 degrees Kelvin.In the grand scheme of things, a man's visit to the proctologist consists of a minute or two of "So Doc, do you like to go BOWL-OWL-OH-MY-GOS-HOLY-SHIT! and then you take an extra minute to sit down in the car. I would not begin to compare my experience to the pain and discomfort that a woman has to experience. But that being said...

MOTHER FUCKER! I try not to drop the big enchilada of curse words, but that is the only way I can vocalize what happened next. Jan takes the sheet and goes to tuck it into the gown, and also into the leg of my boxers. And THERE WAS CONTACT! It isn't like she went to give me a happy ending, but still, an "excuse me" would have been nice. If you are going to cut me off on the freeway. you could at least wave. And if you are going to make uninvited contact with General Jiggly, say something. "Sorry", "Whoops!", "Impressive"...ANYTHING! And then she squirts about 2 quarts of what felt like cold 10W30 on my inner thigh and followed that by taking some kind of scanning instrument and jabbing it into the crease between my thigh and my island of fun and prizes. No warning. And when I inevitably tense up she tells me to stop resisting. "Stop resisting"? What the hell is this, Gitmo? She picks about 4 spots on the thigh and just grinds the thing into my flesh. And all I could think was that if this is how all ultrasounds are done, no wonder babies come out crying. Oh my Damn!

This continues on the other thigh. By this point I have become used to the torture and can at least mentally prepare myself for the impending emasculation. And before you ask, yes there was cockular contact with the other leg too. Not to mention nutular contact too.

What does all of this mean? It means that I have officially been re-entered into the world of "Bad Touch". I will probably feel dirty of a few days. And there is a good chance that when I am finished here I am going to drink a bottle of wine. Maybe two.

Honestly, I can really see the humor in this. By the time she started on my second leg, I was in full Ferris Bueller mode, constantly "looking at the camera" to make sure that the audience knew that I knew just how absurd this all was.

9 Times...