The Minister of Scraping, or How I Finally Got the Doctor to Shut the Fuck Up

Me: "I'm here to see the Minister of Scraping."

Front Desk (humorless): "What doctor are you here to see?"

Me: "Oh, fine."

Later, in exam room, I lie waiting, reading New York Magazine.

MoS: "Hello! I'm Dr. Whosis, chatter chatter chatter chatter chatter chatter chat-"

Me, interrupting: "Hey, do you mind if I just read my magazine while you do this?"

MoS (perplexed): "What? Uh. Sure?"

Me: "It's nothing personal. I just prefer to be checked out of my body while this is happening, and I'd like to read and use my brain."

MoS: "Do you want me to tell you what I'm doing before I do it?"

Me: "Nope."

MoS: "Okay."

I read my magazine. There's some pain but reading helps keep my mind off it

MoS: "All done. You may have some cramping and spotting, like a period, blah blah blah. Then we're going to yadda yadda yadda blah blah bullshit blah get you pregnant blah."

Me: "Got it. Thanks."

MoS: "That's maybe the longest I've ever had to be quiet."

Me: smiles politely, thinking, that appointment was fifteen minutes, max

Popped half an Oxy in the ladies' room on my way out, and am now home, with hot pad, feeling pretty good all things considered.

Also, word to the wise - on the consent form for this endometrial co-culture nonsense they pointed to two spots for me to initial like it was no big deal. They were consents for the procedure to be filmed (WTF?) and for a medical apparatus sales person to be present (WTF x 4?). I did not initial them, and you don't have to, either.