It is a begrudging effort because it opens me up to all kinds of speculation. I ultimately accept that I am human and call to make the appointment. As I call what I believe to be the physician I regularly visit I make a conscious decision to adopt the tone of a man who is casual and upbeat about penile impairment that inadvertently slips into the tone of a desperate and naïve young boy who really ought to make more informed decisions about where he puts his genitalia. A woman answers the phone.
“Ahwatukee Family Physicians. This is Megan.”
“Yes, hi. I’m calling to schedule an appointment.”
“Just a second. Let me put you on hold.”
Megan affords me the opportunity to rethink my strategy. When asked in regards to my appointment, do I simply blurt out, ‘My dick hurts?’, or should I be coy? Should I say something to the effect of, ‘Something is wrong … you know, Megan. Down there.’ She joins me on the line quicker than I anticipate.
“Thank you for holding. And what are you setting this appointment up for?”
Suddenly I am aware that all of my roommates are home. I have not told them of my terrible affliction. Suddenly the walls are paper – the word ‘penis’ has potential to burn through the house like a towering inferno. Mark is in his room and I can hear his voice audibly through the vent in the wall that separates our living quarters.
“Yes, I uh … I’m calling in regards to a possible … bladder infection.”
The last two words are quiet, quieter than I expected or intended.
“I’m sorry?”
“A POSSIBLE BLADDER INFECTION.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
When I arrive to the doctors I am relieved to find it is not the one I normally visit. The normal one I visit I awkwardly used to be friends with his son Brian in elementary school and attended his birthday party. For this particular event we went to what I can only believe to be a carnival, where each birthday attendant was allotted a small amount of money [by the aforementioned doctor] for games that yielded prizes, of which, was a stuffed animal I had personally won. Later during the slumber aspect of the party, I, for whatever it was that compels children to be destructive, decapitated my stuffed animal. Perhaps to prove a point. Perhaps merely to say, ‘Hey. I’m too big for this.’ Whatever the reason, Brian tattled on me. In the early hours of the morning I was scolded by his father. Brian and I were no longer friends after that night. The experience was so great my mother decided to utilize his stern father’s medical abilities for the entire family. Now every time I have an infection I must have an obligatory conversation about the things Brian is up to these days that I don’t care about before I can be healthy. Except today. It is a lady doctor, cooing my innate male with an embarrassing penis problem instincts out of its dreary cave.
I dress up my symptoms to sound mysterious. I make it sound like a medical phenomenon exclusive to me. The doctor is not impressed. She listens to me momentarily, listens to my breathing, and then tells me I probably have Chlamydia. She essentially believes this because typically any male in their 20’s who is sexually active who speaks of things within this ballpark have Chlamydia. As much alternative music, skinny jeans, hoodies as I invested in all throughout my college career in an effort to distance myself from the other dudes, I am reminded I am painfully average. She writes me a prescription for a powerful antibiotic. Before leaving she hands me a little cup and instructs me to pee in it and hand it to an old man in a little room on my way out. I do this and feel very sorry for the old man when he clasps the warm container of my urine in his hand because I indirectly feel as though I have pissed on him.
I drive to the pharmacy immediately. I have to wait for the pharmacists to fill my prescription so I grab a bite to eat while I mull over what is really plaguing my junk. I develop many theories. When I return to collect my meds the woman at the counter asks me if I’d like instructions from the pharmacist. I politely shrug. The pharmacist approaches me and grabs the bottle in front of me, reads the label, and immediately passes sweeping judgment over me. “You’re gonna want to take this, immediately,” she says glaring down at me. These are the instructions. With them, many implied instructions are given as well.
A few days later I am at work when I receive a phone call. I don’t recognize the number but I answer it. The woman on the line informs me she has the results of my urine test, screened for Chlamydia. She mumbles the result and I ask her to repeat it. “Negative,” she says, more audibly.
Hopefully next time when I’ve potentially contracted AIDS it’s also amusing.
