"You lied." I say between clenched teeth.
"I'm good at that," he deadpans.
Damn. I smile in spite of myself.
Earlier he'd held up a tiny needle full of liquid and told me it wouldn't hurt near so much as the other ones he used to give me so I told him, oh alright, go ahead.
He is my family doctor. Someone I've known as a patient for a dozen years. We know each other outside the office through a mutual organization we're both active in as well. He has the quickest, dry wit that he uses to diffuse uncomfortable situations and a compassion that runs deep. The first time I ever mentioned my history of childhood sexual abuse to him he stopped in his tracks and listened with the whole of his being. He encouraged me to get counselling and celebrated with me as I began healing. When I did my radio documentary two years ago he gave me the kindest feedback on it.
I've been feeling crappy since late last week and today just happened to have an appointment to see him that I'd made earlier this month. He took a swab of my throat and gave me antibiotics for strep throat.
He listened to the other issues I've been having and ordered the appropriate tests. I asked him if I made another appointment would he do something about the bump on my right index finger. I told him if I was an old lady I'd live with it because it looks like it belongs on an old lady hand. He told me he could do surgery or he could inject full of cortisone right away. At first I refused but the bump looks exactly like the proverbial wart on a witch's nose except it's on my finger. Then, because he told me it wouldn't hurt, I said, sure you can pump it full of cortisone.
Do I have the word SUCKER on my forehead? No. Maybe the word VANITY, though.