Dear Blog Reader.
I hope that this finds you doing
well. I am on the mend. My health has been a bit rocky the past three weeks. I
have not been my usual robust self. I have a theory. I believe that the doctor
who performed the colonoscopy three weeks ago must have been the spawn of Lex
Luthor. Upon seeing the Superman qualities “colon of a 20 year old”, he
jealously left behind a trace of kryptonite. In the intervening weeks, this
green glowing outer space element has been sapping the strength from me. This
sapping has left my constitution a bit weakened. First, I succumbed to a really
bad sinus cold and then this week I came down with . . . with . . . “male
pattern baldness.” Thaaaaaat’ssss right. Let’s just say that I had a really bad
case of “male pattern baldness.” So bad in fact, it was untreatable.
So buckle on your reading glasses. Sit back and prepare to
be amazed as I regale you with my trials and tribulations trying to find a
prescription for “Rogaine”.
On Thursday, I woke up and looked
into the mirror and said “Egads, I appear to have come down with a mild case of
“male pattern baldness” overnight. My appearance now makes me feel a bit
uncomfortable.” By the end of work, what with being around people staring at
me, hearing their snickers as I passed, once swearing that I hear a whispered
“old baldy”, I had decided to be proactive and seek medical attention. I wasn’t
going to tough this one out. Besides, things had proceeded from a bit
uncomfortable to “darn that hurts my feelings.”
I phoned the lovely Miss Beverly
and told her of my plans. She suggested that I stop by minute clinic. They had
helped her with a similar situation a couple of years ago. It is hard to
believe that the perfection that we know of as the lovely Miss Beverly ever
suffered from a thinning pate; she with the thick and gorgeous raven hair. No
problem, “male pattern baldness” isn’t brain surgery after all, I’ll go to
minute clinic
Using all of my internet savvy, I found a Walgreens on the
way home. “Walgreens at the corner of Happy and Healthy”, the corner of Happy
and Healthy is just a couple of blocks off of my usual route home. And look
there, it appears you would have less than a 30 minute wait. This is not bad
for the cure for “male pattern baldness”, which if left unchecked might leave
me a feverish ball, curled up on the bathroom floor sobbing after finding
clumps of hair on the brush.
Well let me tell you the corner
Happy and Healthy has its trash picked up in the alley of Despair. I go in. I
see only one person in the waiting area. Great! I sign in on the kiosk. Yes, I
can pay. I am no doctor, but I am sure that “male pattern baldness” is a minor
illness. I mean I can still go to work. It isn’t contagious. I didn’t need an
ambulance for transport. Yes, I am here for treatment of a minor illness. I
pressed enter. I looked up at the waiting room screen. Roger Sharritt is second
in line. Cool. I walk over to the waiting area and take up a seat well away
from the woman who is suffering from a major illness from the sound of that
hacking cough she has. She is going to throw a lung if she isn’t careful. I sit
down, pull out my ipad and I overhear her say “that’s weird; I was first on the
waiting list now I am third.” That is weird, and stupid and a poor way to deal
with customer service. It appears that like a five star restaurant, you can
make a reservation at the corner of Happy and Healthy.
How un-American is that? If I wanted to make a reservation,
I would have called my regular doctor and made an appointment. It has always
been survival of the fittest in the clinic waiting room. Americans know and
accept this. You go in sign the paper and sit down with the rest of humanity in
that putrid ark of contagion. You sign the paper and you know that you are 18th,
or 10th or even (hallelujah) 3rd. Even if you are 18th,
you have a little bit of hope. You look around the waiting room and you figure
that there is a good chance 1, or 2, on a good day 3, of your compatriots
aren’t going to make it. It is the law of averages. One or two of these poor
souls are not long for this world and this line is too long. But at the corner
of Happy and Healthy, you can get bumped by the unseen, the unknown gods of the
internet. A little tip from your Uncle Roger, make an appointment. It appears
that they will hold it for you so that when you come waltzing in for your TB
test 5 minutes late, you are first in line. Yes the corner of Happy and Healthy
has trash pick up in the alley of Despair. Now I am not making any crazy
suggestions because it would be mean. I wonder what would happen, if all the
friends of the blog logged on to different public access terminals and made
reservations at the corner of Happy and Healthy completely randomly. No! Don’t
do that, or at least use a fictitious name if you choose play around.
As you can imagine after waiting
for an hour and a half, I was becoming quite crazed. The fever from my “male
pattern baldness” was starting to affect my lucidity. But the door had opened;
the angel of mercy had said “Roger Sharritt.” I was leaving the alley of
Despair and going in the front door at the corner of Happy and Healthy. The
nurse practitioner had some important information to get from me, my insurance
card, my license, the answer to the question “why did you choose Walgreen’s?”
Only searching for relief of my malady, I gave her my card, my license and my
answer. “I heard that you had world class treatment.”
Appeased and a bit pleased, the nurse practitioner asked “so
what’s the problem?” I like that-- short and to the point. No need to ask about
the dog, the kids, no comments about the interminable winter, just, so what’s
the problem? I took a deep breath and said “I believe that I have “male pattern
baldness”.” She looked at me with wide eyes which I mistook for disbelief me
being such a handsome man. She shook her head slowly from side to side and said
“I am so sorry.” I briefly thought to myself that is the most empathy I have
ever heard from a health care practitioner. I found myself wanting to change my
answer. “I chose Walgreen’s because of how much you care.” Then her next words
slowly registered. “I’m sorry we don’t treat “male pattern baldness”.” I
confirmed what she had said by asking “What?” “We don’t treat “male pattern
baldness”.”
The way that she said it led me to
believe that they did treat female pattern baldness; which I had assumed since
they had cured the lovely Miss Beverly, the woman of the thick and luxuriant
raven hair. Sure enough, way down in the fine print they only treat female
pattern baldness even through we are all created equal. I have checked it out
with real doctor’s receptionists since.
Universally, two real doctor’s
receptionists say that’s the stupidest thing that they have ever heard of. Rogaine
is the answer. Besides if Rogaine isn’t the answer, I am not going to postpone
follow up care. I doubt that I could have made it past day 3 of a 5 day script
without some relief. I was starting to dread walking by a mirror just thinking
about the grief my reflection would cause. If the Rogaine didn’t help, I would
gladly go to the Mayo Clinic for follow up care and a possible a cure.
I was shocked and stunned when the
practicing nurse said that she couldn’t help. Where was I, Arizona
“But sir.”
“Good bye.”
I left the clinic but somehow remembered that I was to pick
up hotdog buns to compliment the lovely Miss Beverly’s supper. No problem. Drug
stores have long ceased selling only controlled substances. Less than a quarter
of the floor space in most stores is used to sell drugs. On the way in, I had
seen that they had a well stocked grocery area. Alas, it appears that the
corner of Happy and Healthy does not let the weenie man set up his weenie stand
out front where he could sell most anything from hotdogs on down. Who know what
happened to his dreamy weenie fiancé? I suppose that she is in the alley of
despair. They sold no weenie buns. Don’t know the reference? Your parents
should have sent you to camp, and you should send your kids this summer.
I drove home hat pulled firmly down
over my head, gritting through the discomfort of “male pattern baldness”, completely
bunless. What did it mean? Was I the victim of religious discrimination, cruel
bigotry, medical ineptitude or bad market segmentation? I only know that it is
a cruel world that forces a man to keep his head hidden while leaving his
weenie naked.
Take care,
Roger
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