The Doctor Is Out

**The Doctor Is Out

Dearest Doctor,

         The nurse said that you would be a little late, but that I could wait if I wanted to. With a husband home sick with end-of-the-season football depression, one daughter home from school with cold teeth, a poodle in heat, and the Roto-Rooter man coming any minute, what else do I have to do?

         For one-half hour, I sat here rehearsing my symptoms so I wouldn't waste your time with unnecessary details. The next half hour I sat here with a thermometer in my mouth.

         Getting a little restless, I decided to straighten your painting of Florence Nightingale standing beside the Hippocratic Oath (or is that Hypocritic?), empty your ashtrays, throw out last year's magazines, water your artifical rhododendron, and take phone messages while your secretary went to the hairdresser.

         Two hours have passed. I can't remember why I came, but it must have been pretty bad for me to wait this long.

         I think I'll take two aspirins and go to bed. If I wake up in the morning, I'll give you a call.

Your Patient Patient,
Amanda L.

P.S. Your bill is on the desk.

** I had this published in The Saturday Evening Post in March of 1975. They paid me $25.00 for it.