The Doctor’s Note
I went to the doctor for my foot recently. I sprained it thinking I was Michael Jackson dancing in my room and I needed a doctor’s note to take a couple days off from work. I have never been to a doctor. I have a psychiatrist and a gynecologist but as far as a regular doctor, no.
“Please step on the scale.” Ah.. what? No I don’t weigh myself.
“I’m cool.” By the look on the nurse’s face I knew I wasn’t getting out of it.
“Ok, fine, just don’t tell me what I weigh.” I took off my shoes, of course, and stepped on the scale. I briefly peeked down and saw the digital numbers go in and out as the scale was pin pointing my weight. 149..151.. why did I even think of looking down? Those numbers were enough to scare me off of spying on the scale.
“Ok the doctor will be right with you.” I sat on the table and wondered how it was possible that I had never been to a doctor. Measuring height and weight and blood pressure and who knows what else, I can see now why I’ve managed to avoid going to the doctor my whole life.
“Erica, I’m Doctor Simon. Pleasure to meet you.” I shook his hand.
“I really don’t want to be here, I just sprained my ankle and need a note to get a couple days off from work.”
“Not a problem.” He checked out my foot. Asked me some questions and I was good to go with a note for my boss. When I left the building I thought of my options. I can go to a local Fed Ex and fax it or get back on my Vespa and hand deliver it. The office was only down the street so decided to make a little scene.
When I injured myself I called in sick two days in a row. No one told me about needing a note if you missed a third day. One of my coworkers overheard my boss tell another employee about me needing a note and he immediately texted me with a heads up. She didn’t bother to tell me. I was pissed so on the third day I went back to work with a giant black and blue ankle and when one of my other coworkers saw it she gasped.
“Jesus Christ dude. Go home.”
“I need a doctors note.”
“I don’t know dude. That looks pretty bad.” I managed to get through the day and every step I took the pain got wore and worse. Eventually I gave up and left early to go see the doctor and get the note. I told my boss I was taking off and she gave me a look like what’s wrong. I started to pull down my sock to show her the bruise but was so annoyed that I even had to go there I walked.
“I’ll be back.” So when I got my note, I marched back in there, dropped it in her mailbox, turned, and walked out.
Now I have a week to recover and the worse part is I am not supposed to work out but have that stupid number from the sale seared in my brain. 149…151…15?!
I don’t want to know.
Loberg, E. (2014). The Doctor’s Note. Psych Central. Retrieved on September 2, 2015, from http://blogs.psychcentral.com/manic-depression/2014/08/09/the-doctors-note/