When you go to the doctors’ office at 7:30 in the morning, and you say you have the flu, you get a pink mask.

And for a doctor, you get who you get which is okay, because I just want a prescription, and any old MD will do.

I first have to tell the officious nurse my symptoms: that my elbows and ankles and nose hairs ache, and that every time I get within 10 feet of a bed, I have to get in it, and when I do, I let out one of those primal moans that is (apparently) a sound that only dogs, not husbands, hear.

I say, “I had a temp of 102 all night,” and I think she thinks I’m lying because it was only 100.4 when she took it.  The goal of this appointment is to look sick, very sick, and old, because I am told that doctors are reluctant to give Tamiflu unless you have some condition that requires aggressive treatment.

I have shit to do and I see no reason to suffer. That’s my condition.

And then the doctor comes in.  I don’t like that he’s a man, who will probably judge my body, a manatee-shaped body, as if this is a beauty contest or the Hunger Games.  He’ll be all business, hug the door for a quick escape,  then complain to his colleagues about whiny women.

But I like that he’s a little pudgy, has a thick, foldy neck, and that his stethoscope rests aloft his paunch.  He asks, “What are your symptoms?”—and again I describe the aching nose hairs and the narcolepsy and my raging 103.6 temperature.

He begins his exam, starting at the top, first my eyes, through my steamed up glasses.

“These masks are hot!  I don’t know how you docs can see to operate!” I say, exuding empathy.

“That’s why I’m an internist,” he says.  Smart ass.

As he peers in my ears through that pointy thingamajig, he asks, carefully, “Do you work outside the home?”  He knows not to ask if I’m a house frau, he’s had his consciousness raised and all, but that is really what he wants to know.

“Oh, no,” I say. ‘”I am retired.”

He spins around to look at the computer screen and exclaims — and I’m choosing now to believe he’s sincere– “You’re 65?  You don’t look 65!”

“All my wrinkles are under the mask,” I say.

But when I lower the mask so I can say, “Ahhh,” he looks at me with his kind eyes and says again, “You do not look 65!”

“I am going to listen to your back now.  Deep breaths.”  I sit up straight to lengthen my torso, but I know he is still going to have to listen for whatever it is they listen for through my back fat.  He says, “Perfect.  Your lungs are clear,” and I feel proud, like I’ve studied hard for a test and gotten an A.

He tells me that they prescribe Tamiflu for the elderly (which I now think I’m not) and the immune suppressed, not for healthy young people like me. He’s trying to make a soft landing for his refusal to write a prescription, but my eyes drill a hole through his forehead.  He cannot resist my feminine wiles.

As his white coat turns toward the door, I say, “When I came, I was so hoping you’d be the doctor to see me.  I wish I could shake your hand, but I’m so germy.”

He smiles and raises a fist for me to punch.  He likes me.  He really likes me.

With my Tamiflu prescription in hand, I walk to the receptionist’s window with my chart.

“I hope you feel better,” she says.

“So do I.  You know, I had a 106 degree temperature all night!”

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