Dr. Evil

By Wendy Wheatley

Once again, I had to take my children to the doctor. Between my hospital history and my three childrens’ – the nurses believe I’m on staff. My face is familiar in the sterile hospital hallways and I can speak the medic lingo with the best of ‘em. However – faithful readers will know that my children react to a hospital like a vampire reacts to a wooden cross – they hiss, recoil in horror and try to take out as many innocent bystanders on their way down. Needless to say, hospital staff react pretty much the same way when they see me coming with my squabbling children in tow.

Our adventure began when my oldest daughter complained that her “po po” hurt. Every family refers to their childrens’ anatomical gender parts in a cute little way and somehow my husband called it a po po – and it stuck. It figures. But at least it’s better than what he calls his own little friend. I consider the girls in the family got off easy. At least they don’t have to call it “Little Johnny.”

So I took my daughter to the doctor. We just moved to a new state and finding a pediatrician provided by our insurance was a formidable task. I slowly waded through the list of specialists , shaman, witch doctors and high priests and stumbled upon a pediatrician that was accepting new patients. I guess the listing of “Dr. Evil’s House of Horrors” should have tipped me off. But I’m not that bright – and the receptionist knew what a “po po” was – so my guard was down when I arrived to the office.

After being ushered into a small patient room, the nurse took my daughter’s vitals. Nurse Hatchet seemed normal enough, but in hindsight, I suspect she was only a front. Wait until my daughter is down to her skivvies to unleash the beast. And I could hear her quickly approaching down the hall.

The glass of water on the counter slowly revealed an evolving ripple. The callow footsteps exploded upon us as the ripples in the glass of water became more violent with each impending rumble. My daughter and I desperately clung to one another waiting for the inevitable approach. And the door swung open.

A petite woman in her early fifties clunked into the room. She seemed to be struggling with her stride and I had to bite my tongue to stifle my discovery. The woman was wearing shoes with raised soles that would have made the Spice Girls proud. Dr. Evil’s small frame could barely hoist her knees high enough to walk and the result was an awkward shuffle with each foot clomping loud enough to wake the dead. My daughter noticed the pimp-worthy shoes and I frantically covered her mouth severing her “Spice Girls” jubilation in mid-sentence.

Only it didn’t stop at the shoes. Her sheer nylons were snagged with the run extending beneath the shoes up past the hem of her skirt. Her toenails revealed worn and chipped polish that was desperately clinging to life and refused to be completely removed. And her hair was a tribute to Cyndi Lauper. I’m absolutely serious. My daughter uttered an awe-struck, “Coooool” just soft enough to be heard. Maybe Dr. Evil had the right rationalization.

Dr. Evil began the inquiry of our visit. And she also knew what a “po po” was, but suggested we use the proper terms for our body parts in the future. Dr. Evil asked my daughter if that “other area” was irritated. I hesitated and then discreetly turned to my daughter and in a hushed voice asked, “Does your bunke hurt, honey?” Busted! Dr. Evil heard. I endured another scolding about proper names for body parts while I secretly willed her to trip over her elevator shoes and be licked to death by affectionate and uncontrollable St. Bernard puppies.

As we left Dr. Evil’s office with a prescription clutched in my fist, I made a mental note to schedule an appointment with my brother’s dentist. Rumor has it that the doctor talks to his patients indirectly through a pair of chattering teeth. I’m sure he’s a preferred doctor in my insurance booklet.


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