Now to explain this whole Larry David complex. I’m praying everyone is familiar with Larry David, one of the greatest writers of all time. He seems to get himself stuck in situations and he notices everything and he’s brilliantly annoyed and annoying. Hi, nice to meet you. For my testimony, I shall go through a typical scene of dealing with my LDC – Larry David Complex.
It’s Monday. No, not “case of the Mondays” Monday, just Monday. I don’t have my only Monday class until 3 pm (I know…) so waking up is never particularly hellish. Except today. Today I’m sick. And I’m that sick. Sick enough to require medical attention beyond my ADD, being a girl, and freebasing Dayquil and Nyquil respectfully.
Going to the Student Health Center is too much fun. It’s a Twitter fanatic’s dream, a venue only one of two people enjoy: a very vain person constantly updating his or her many followers or a sufferer of LDC. I trudge into the building after first making an ass of myself; I always do this when I speed walk faster than the automatic doors can respond, and I’m forced to stand there awkwardly, refusing to come to a full-stop and watching the people inside wonder if I’ll blow on the glass. Signing in takes 3 different inkless pens that people refuse to throw away and a glob of hand-sanitizer because God only knows how long and how many people have been testing out these skeletal writing utensils.
“Kimberly. Kimberly?” You know how people have their Indian names, or their Christian names, or their Spanish class names? Well Kimberly is my health center name. I didn’t choose it, but then again, I didn’t choose to be called “Lupe” for all of tenth grade Spanish. I report to the desk so the woman who busted her ass in nursing school to scan student IDs and adorn the desk with crap respective to that month’s holiday can be unapologetic about mispronouncing my name. “It’s Kingsley.” If eyes could kill. Someone will be right with me.
An hour later I shift in my waiting room chair to dodge the plague being coughed out of the mouth of the girl sitting right next to me. Does nobody respect the “skip a seat” doctrine of chair ethics? There are seven other possibilities in this row. I know I smell beautiful with what my boyfriend calls old lady perfume, but rules is rules. Luckily I can’t hear the Murder, She Wrote episode from the TV 15 feet away – psych! Angela Lansbury is far more captivating than the sheer brilliance that is the phone conversation taking place a cool 4 feet from me and the victim of the Black Death sitting on my lap.
“Well Sherriff, I think it’s going to be a long – Dude, last night she straight up wouldn’t leave. Like what do I even do? She’s crazy and she has that bad – couuughhhofdeaaath ugh.” These three characters are in my show. I wish I could cancel my own show. If only I was Oprah…
“Kimberly…Kimberly…um Kimberly Clark?” No, I’m not kidding. And she’s reading it from a computer screen. I’m going to make her work for it. Hey, she didn’t kill herself in nursing school to just bring patients from one waiting room to another. Wait, yes she did. “Kimberly?” I’m staring at her now, daring her to accuse me of the title. “Are you Kimberly?” She recognizes me. Nope, I definitively say with a go-ahead-and-do-it smile. “What’s your name?” KINGS-LEY Clark, as if she’s Spanish. Come to think of it, maybe I should have used Lupe. “Right, ok that’s what I have here, come with me.” But that’s not what you have right there. Not even close. I suck it up and follow her so she can use her degree to weigh me and assume I know how tall I am.
The new waiting room has only 3 seats, and I respect the law, leaving a middle seat between me and the kid who also respects laws. His pale body is bent and twisted and he’s wrapped around his neck and looks like he’s about to cry. I’m sick too, but jeez. We look at each other in agreement, as if the doctor will ask one of us to testify that the other is sick. While he maintains the look of someone having just murdered his puppy, he also convinces himself that he DEFINITELY DOES NOT NEED TO BLOW HIS NOSE. NAH AH. NO WAY. MM MM. NO THANKS. NOT DOING IT. While I focus on the nurses down the hall, hard at work watching a YouTube video and passing around Pam’s dip, he sniffs in what sounds like enough snot to drown the puppy that may or may not have just been killed, judging by his heavy eyes and their threatening crocodile tears. The sniffs become more frequent, and he sneaks a few sleeve wipes. With each blood curdling snort, he looks at me, helpless, while I stare at him to walk the 5 feet the bathroom and release the 5 pints he’s so selfishly withholding. NAH AH, his eyes retort.
“OK Kimberly, come with me.” It’s Kingsley. “Uh huh, that’s what I meant.” Like KINGS-ley, like a king. “Look, we see a million kids everyday and we can’t possibly be expected to remember all of you.” I’m not asking you to remember me. I’m not even asking you anything. I’m correcting you. I’m attempting to make right your wrong wrong wrongdoing. “Look, I get it. You’re sick, you’re tired, and this is the last place you’d like to be.” Right, but I was just telling you. It’s not that hard. KINGS-ley. Like a king.
Just for that I had to wait 6 more minutes before my blood pressure, temperature, and whatever information my finger provides could be taken. The nurse who replaced the one I had corrected jams my finger into that thing I always fear will prick it. “No, it’s not gonna prick you, just hold still.” She averts eye contact with her unruly patient. “You know, the print on these little computers is small and a name like yours is easy to mistake.” I’m unapologetic, I tell her so with my crossed arms despite the 90 degree exam room. “Wait here.” As if I’m going to get loose and wreak havoc amongst the other patients, or God forbid, LEAVE!
Great, more waiting. I sit on the exam table and kick the metal footboard. I can play “Teach Me How to Dougie,” “My Cherie Amour,” and I’m getting good at “Sweet Child of Mine.” 30 minutes and 6 restarts later, a hyper good-looking doctor enters the room, knocking first. Do patients get bored and disrobe? Is that a problem? Or somewhere along this journey did I sign a lease for this room? Yes, you may enter.
He speaks very fast and doesn’t even use my name. But I don’t care, he can call me all the terms of endearment he wants. And he does. He tells me that I smell good and even uses my favorite Bob Dylan combo, “honey-baby.” He studies my chart like a fifth grader refreshing his spelling words moments before dooms-quiz. “So what’s up, Sugar?” Well, lately I’ve been experiencing feelings of doubt, lack of direction, and inadequacy. And my marriage just isn’t where it needs to be. How do you cure exhaustion without 5 cups a day, right??
I tell him everything WebMD told me to say in terms of the common cold. He listens to my breathing and scopes in my ear. “Bronchitis and a sinus infection.” Bring. It. On.
This 5-minute consultation ends in a lengthy prescription sheet and a pat on the back. Come on, Doc! You said I smelled good! Lay it on me! Bryan doesn’t like to kiss me when I’m sick!
Let me just get the hell out of here. I hand my prescription paper to the guy at the pharmacy window like it’s my permission slip to go to the zoo for Ms. Conway’s 90th time with the third grade. He backs away as if the paper is on fire, defensively telling me to go to the other window for “intake.” The windows are a foot apart. My eyes threaten to set him on fire, and I electric slide to the left.
I sign over my life to the fifteen-year-old looking pharmacist at “intake.” Not sure if she looks 15 because of her hot pink scrubs or if it’s because she has adult braces…nonetheless I’ve just given her my campus ID, my phone number, and my social. Can’t wait for her to simply toss that in the trash for ANYONE to find.
While I wait for my prx, I watch the desk-nurse from earlier play 9 games of solitaire. She’s awful. But she doesn’t keep losing, no, for each time someone speaks to her, she loses focus and begins a new game. Ugh you had 3 aces in that hand!
“Kinsly?” Oh, that’s new today. “Kinsly to the pharmacy window.” At this point I’m so ready to dope up on cough medicine and OnDemand television that I trudge up to the window. The guy at the “outtake” window taunts me. “Ok Kinsly, just sign here.” It’s Kingsley, like a – “ok did the doctor explain all the medicine to you?” Yes. Die. “What’s that? He tried?” I consider snapping his Livestrong bracelet really hard on his wrist, but refrain when I'm distracted by his ringing cell phone.
You must be kidding. Such is my life. I sign my fictional name and let the pharmacist at the "outtake" window answer his phone. "Hey Lupe, what's up, girl?"
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