DRIFTING AWAY FROM DOCTOR DREAD

I am the squeamish sort. I have fainted twice at doctors’ offices. I also passed out watching a film about the heart in high school biology. I have had to lie on the cold tiled floor of the bathroom outside a medical office after having a couple of moles removed. I have had ear and eye exams interrupted as the light-headed, cold, clammy symptoms surfaced. Yes, I am not just squeamish. I am a medical anomaly.

Any doctor’s visit brings uncertainty and anxiety. When I had my wisdom teeth removed, the specialist refused to put me under because I didn’t have anyone to drive me home. (I felt a cab would be fine.) He had barely begun when my semi-controlled moaning noises became too much for him. He screamed at me and then said, “I don’t care. You’re going under!” Fine by me.

Another doctor who seemed homophobic in the first place did not take kindly to my skittishness and went out of his way to make the examination unpleasant. In the end, he stated that he did not want to see me again. Again, fine by me.

I carefully selected my current doctor, putting out feelers among friends. Wanted: doctor with amazing patience for nervous patients. Thankfully, I found just the right person. He is a gay doctor who matter-of-factly asks the relevant questions about sexual health and seems genuinely amused by my nervous, fast-paced banter and by the bottle of O.J. that I bring along in case I feel faint. He takes his time. I get the impression that he extends the chat during the examination, viewing my behaviours as a quirky change of pace. At the very least, it must provide for interesting banter in the break room.

Today was my first appointment in three years. Yes, even though I have found the right doctor, I don’t go out of my way to visit. The office is one of my few exposures to the gay world as the other doctors are also gay and the waiting room is always filled with gay patients who intently eye the entrance door every time a new person walks in. Never thought of going to the doctor as an opportunity for cruising.

Beside the coat rack was a stack of the local gay newspaper, Xtra West, which I haven’t come across since moving out of Vancouver’s West End in June. As I waited forty-five minutes—okay, it seems my doctor dawdles with all his patients—I noticed a couple of assistants retrieving files and calling patients’ names. The assistants were both hunky, buff eye candy in tight shirts. My gosh, my doctor’s office is the gay equivalent to Hooters!

It’s all a bit surreal, but I suppose the übergay atmosphere provides enough distraction to take the edge off. I passed my physical by not fainting. The doctor did have to say, “Just relax” nine times—yes, I counted as a way to amuse myself. Still, I didn’t even reach for the orange juice and this is the first time that I can recall that the tin paper sheet on the examining table wasn’t soaked through when I got up. Progress! A phone number might have been a nice bonus, but that would have been pushing it.

Medical breakthrough? Sure. Medical miracle? Forget about it.

All the Gays Are Waiting

I look forward to my jaunts to the city. While I regularly remind myself that Vancouver is only a ferry ride away, I don't go every week. Ferry costs, wait times, chores at home make trips less frequent.

Last week I headed over for a doctor's appointment. Of course, there are family doctors in my area, but I'm a nervous dweeb around all things medical and, having established a rapport with one doctor, I'm not about to change. He is also gay and that helps, should I need to discuss anything sensitive. (If only!) It doesn't hurt that I have a big ol' crush on the guy. Sure, he's got a partner he's been with for years--as the framed photo of the loving couple reminds me each time I enter the examination room--and I know about the boundaries of doctor-patient relationships, but it feels good to have a few flirty butterflies mixed in with the nervousness that overtakes my body when I have a medical appointment.

My doctor shares an office with a group of doctors who are also gay. When I enter the waiting room, it's like any other medical waiting room: dull paintings, scattered publications, cushioned chairs in outdated colors with clunky armrests. Except all the clients are gay.

As I waited, one gay couple reconnected with an acquaintance, loudly carrying on a conversation while seated at opposite ends of the room. Marv and Ben moved in together in December. They love being together. They held hands and kidded about laundry duties. Cam was heading to Mexico the next day, anxious to escape the cold weather and the possibility of more snow. He was a little worried that he hadn't fit in enough gym workouts before throwing on (and off) a swimsuit, but c'est la vie--only in Spanish.

Had I still lived in the West End of Vancouver--the gay ghetto--I would have tuned out the conversation immediately. Yeah, yeah, gay, gay, happy, happy. Now that I live in the sticks, I soaked in every word while staring blankly at an open newspaper. I am not alone, I am not alone. Damn ferry!

As Cam was summoned by an attendant, Marv and Ben locked into some goo-goo-eyed messaging and I looked for something different to read. Another big difference! Pretty-faced men adorned every magazine cover--except for the sole issue of Cosmo. I hadn't heard of any of the magazines, but they were are clearly gay or gayish. I decided to flip through the latest issue of the local gay newspaper, Xtra West, instead. At least I recognized something.

Continuing to wait--my doctor is notorious for running extremely late--I found comfort and amusement in the waiting room. More gays came and went. It was all perfectly normal by Vancouver standards. I was less nervous than ever. And I hadn't even caught a glimpse of my own version of Dr. McDreamy yet.