A thousand years ago, when dinosaurs and free-range physicians roamed the earth, the unnamed university required persons staying home from work more than one day to bring a doctor’s note. In those days, all one did was phone up one’s doctor, cough a bit and one would be invited to cough on other sick people in the doctor’s waiting room. After a dignfied period, one saw the doctor, who tapped, prodded and called patients by first names. Soon, one left the doctor’s office with prescriptions and a note. If one was short of cash, arrangements would be made. I know a doctor’s family that used to accept chickens as payment.
Today, I have an appointment with my doctor, a Dutch lady with a lofty teaching position at some other branch of the giant, unnamed university. She has many times come to my rescue, but I hate making appointments to see her. First: she has no time and too many commitments. Second: her office staff takes it as gospel that the job is to protect the Good Doctor from patients. A month ago, I ventured over there to ask about the invigorating vertigo. She said, “Make an appointment for a physical. We’ll have a blast.” I marched no further than 20 feet and said, “She says make an appointment for a physical.” The Keeper of the Book said, “We don’t have any. Call next week.” So our party is postponed until I feel well enough to deal with the office staff. Does my doctor miss me?
Today, I’ll ask why I still have a headache and why the flu won’t leave my lungs. I don’t know about you, but I need those. One thing I don’t need is a note. Everyone in the library’s basement could write an affidavit attesting to my constant coughing, which is nice and all, but no one has that much insurance. I hope they take chickens.