Is There a Doctor in the House?

Staying home sick was a marathon sport which I excelled at. I couldn't squeeze too many absent days in, but the ones I did manage were cherished. I usually came down with some catastrophic illness around Sunday evening. The worst symptoms increased rapidly around seven p.m. "Hmmm," my mom began, putting her palm to my forehead, "you do feel a little warm. We'll wait and see how you feel in the morning." That was my ticket; naturally I felt worse in the morning. The invisible, yet inarguable "sore throat", was like mystifying back pain; the doctors couldn't prove it, but they couldn't deny its existence either.

Amazingly, I was healthy as a horse on weekends and during the summer months. Nothing, not so much as a sneeze, fell upon me in the sunny days of freedom. The great plagues of the sixties usually began sometime after Labor Day and ended around the first of June. During the school year, and the school days, the plagues were upon us and many of us guys in the neighborhood shared symptoms. "You must've picked that up from Robert; I noticed he looked a little peaked last time he was over."

Enter the doctor.

Our family doctor’s name was Dr. Gustafson. He appeared a kindly man but lacked certain humors to alleviate the fears of children. There was nothing fun about his office. In the waiting room there were only grown up magazines-nothing for kids except a toy box in the corner that only held the most juvenile of items such as kiddie puzzles, and giant pull toys. There was also a tall potted plant that I’m sure was only used for nurses to hide behind so they could sneak up on us and grab hold.

As beneficial as staying home sick was, it could also backfire on me. I had the knack of giving Academy Award-winning performances that could extend my home stay into two days. Usually, a visit to Dr. Gustafson’s office was in store when that happened. Doctor visits were no fun. There was absolutely nothing to be gained from going to the doctor. First off, the rooms were sterile, brightly lit torture chambers that smelled of alcohol and dread. Each drawer contained instruments of fear designed to inflict the worse pain imaginable on the human body. The waiting room was no better; I waited in fear for the executioner (nurse) to come out and call "Jeffrey?”

The nurse and my mom led me into the doctor’s exam room. It was a short walk down that malevolent corridor where even the sterile walls seemed to tremble in fear. Myriad thoughts scrambled through my brain, evoking countless unspoken questions to mom. "Is this you getting even with me for shooting Pat in the forehead with a rubber tipped arrow that was missing the rubber tip? Or is it for the time I roasted marshmallows on the front burner of the stove? For not eating my peas Wednesday night? For playing Tarzan on the roof of the garage?"

I lived in fear of the doctor. It didn't matter what I had; I could have a tiny bump on my head and he always gave me a shot in the butt. In my short youth, I had seen so many visits to the doctor, and each visit ended the same: with a plastic plunger and a long needle.