I took Charlie to the vet recently for his annual physical. He was thoroughly examined then given his shots, cradled in the arms of the veterinary assistant, who whispered in his ear what a good boy he was before hand-feeding him dog treats for behavior that can best be described as canine average.
Shortly thereafter I went for my annual dermatological check-up. My old dermatologist retired, and her replacement looked like Sandra Bullock (I’m talking The Blind Side, not Speed). She introduced herself without cracking a smile, which I took as a personal challenge to win her over with my winsomeness. What’s the problem? she asked, and I pointed to my forearm, where next to an oversized freckle, a mole had mysteriously sprouted. “I am fine with the freckle, but the mole…”
“Benign keratosis,” she said, whipping a liquid nitrogen gun from a holster behind her back. Not the freckle, I started to say, but it was too late. Both freckle and mole zapped with nary a human touch, much less cradling; nary a word of warning, much less a stream of comforting encouragements; no num-nums. She put down her weapon and her assistant told me to follow the purple arrows in the hallway out to the exit.
I drove home, mulling over the state of healthcare, wondering how it’s gotten to the point that I actually find myself wishing I could be treated like a dog.