DOCTOR FUNNY VALENTINES PROMPT
I’m Falling For You
The pathology suggests I am a bloody idiot!
A little background info is required to justify why I am writing this account.
Doc Funny’s Adam Robinson called writers to arms with the following:
This February remove your surgical gown and write sexy…but funny! Send us some funny fails about your love life to make me feel better.
I responded with this gem:
I can’t write sexy, I’m too old, and that combo is just not funny!
Adam answered with this truth:
Raine, you don’t look a day over 21! Get those fishnets on and get writing sexy you raunchy heartbreaker!
This was all it took to get me on board. Truthfully, I am shamefully easy.
Unfortunately, my story is only a teeny bit about romance, a squincy bit about Valentine’s Day, and not sexy, unless you are a weirdo. Still, it is set in a doctor’s surgery, (which has to count, right?), is a big fail, and is completely true — just like Adam’s fine compliment.
No, really, my story is true!
Did I say, ‘firstly’, already?” I can’t be bothered to check the above for a, ‘firstly’, so I’ll proceed with a, ‘nextly’.
Nextly, I know my header image is not up to my usual standard of obsessive just-rightness but it illustrates two important aspects of my story, namely a doctor’s waiting room and a row of chairs, all joined together in a metal frame. Please take a good look at those chairs and appreciate that I did try to zhoosh the image with a Valentine’s rose or twenty-eight.
Right, image firmly in mind’s eye? Good to go then.
The story:
On February 12th, just two days before Valentine’s Day, I had a follow-up appointment with my doctor regarding some recent blood tests. I was a little concerned about the results as there was the potential for some bad news.
Dee and I arrived at the empty waiting room and sat side-by-side on one of the joined-together chairs (refer to the image again, I implore you).
Facing us, on the wall next to my doctor’s consulting room door was another row of chairs, just like the ones upon which we were seated.
Dee had been quieter than usual (that’s outer space quiet) when he leaned over and whispered worriedly in my ear that he would like to accompany me into the doc’s room so he could hear first-hand what the medico had to report.
Of course, I agreed. And we waited
A few minutes later, another patient, a man, joined us in the waiting area— we had seen the previous patient leave ten minutes earlier. Finally, my doctor’s door opened and he gazed around as if trying to decide which patient was his. I’ve been his patient for several years.
“Raine Lore?” he inquired of no one in particular.
I jumped agilely to my feet, (I like to appear vital in my dotage). I closed the cover on my Medium phone app and half-turned to see if Dee was following me. I took several enthusiastic, spritely steps to cover the ground to the consulting room, caught my right foot in the bottom frame of the chairs next to the doc’s door and sailed like an aging, rapidly-losing-gas blimp, through the open portal to land in an ungainly, deflated heap at the doctor’s feet.
I scrabbled around on the carpet for a few embarrassing seconds, (this could be the sexy bit if you’re a geriatric perv), retrieved my phone and handbag, whilst wondering if my right foot would ever recover.
Dee couldn’t assist much because the room was small and he was jammed up against the wall, hands flailing at his sides.
The doctor seated himself at his desk as I lurched for the patient chair and dragged myself into it.
“Are you alright?” he asked, obviously not wanting to hear about my foot for fear of a pending lawsuit against his practice.
“My foot hurts.” I grimaced and giggled at the same time. “But I think I’m okay.”
“Are you sure?” he muttered, quickly perusing his computer for my pathology results.
I was still pulling at my open-toed sandal, assessing my toes and the bones in the top of my foot for multiple fractures, wondering about possible damage to the arch ligaments and tendons, when doc announced that my test results were all good, no further cause for alarm.
“I’m alarmed about my foot!” I muttered.
“Right then. All good then.” He looked pityingly at Dee.
“She’s a bit of a worry,” Dee offered by way of explanation. Grinning, he stood to assist me out the door.
“Yeah, but I am an adorable worry!” I laughed unconvincingly.
The doc rewarded us with a weak grin and mentally shoved us into the waiting area, hastily closing the door behind us.
Dee stopped to examine the long row of chairs and noted the frame had been positioned slightly over the consult room doorway to allow for the addition of a small table at the other end. It was covered with pamphlets and other useless paraphernalia.
My hubby always acts in the best interests of the community when we are out and about. He shoved the chairs back where they belonged and wrestled the little table into a more suitable angle. Casting his eyes over the scene to ensure there were no unsightly pieces of discarded patient rubbish lying around, he felt free to leave.
The still-waiting patient kept his eyes cast down during the whole procedure.
“How’s the foot?” Dee asked, suppressing a laugh as we left reception.
“It’s a bit sore,” I admitted, giggling too.
Two hours later, the damaged foot declared there would be no walking in the foreseeable future, forcing me to sit down and put my leg up.
Soon after I was settled, Dee declared he had to pop down the road to the hardware store — he needed short screws or something. (This could be another sexy bit if you are of a mind)!
Later he burst into the bedroom with a beautiful bunch of red roses and a proud smile on his face. (Dee is not a flower-buying person — he was pumped over his successful hardware-shopping subterfuge!). The closest he ever comes to floral arrangement purchasing is when we are at the supermarket. On occasion, he asks if I would like to get myself some flowers, but not before he mentions how expensive they are. LOL.
“I bought you these because I feel sorry for you,” he declared, shoving the roses into my hand.
“Thank you, darling,” I responded, amazed, grateful and a little bit tearful over the gesture.
“Yeah, they’re nice, hey? They should do you for Valentine’s Day, too!”
