Google Images, Anyone?

[edited to add: I fixed the broken links.]




Thees black and white pictures are sooooo apropos because yesterday, I went to the doctor in 1955. Serious time warp.

I have been waitng forever for a referral to a new dermatologist because mine left the practice (all the derms did, actually). We have an awesome HMO (have you ever heard of such a thing?), but still, these things take time. It's funny because I had a little bit of psoriasis when I asked for the referral, but now I am clearer than I have been since 2002 when this mess showed up.

Anywho, that's all very boring background. Back to my living history doctor experience.

When Harry and I walked into the office, we were strcuk by all the wood paneling and the tall reception desk. Behind the desk was a trim little woman in pantyhose-- pantyhose, can you believe it?-- and closed- toed pumps (and also a skirt and sweater-- what kind of a doctors office did you think this was?). She was busy at-- and I am not making this up here-- a typewriter, which completely fascinated Harry; he loved the noise. She handed me a ditto-- yes, a freaking ditto--to fill out with all of my patient information. Then she typed it up and made me my very own file in a folder like this one, only it said "Lastname, Sarah, Mrs. MRS???????? I have not been called that since I got married. I don't even think my (progressive hippy) doctor asks my marital status, just my number of sexual partners. Sure, I get the occasional "Ma'am" once in awhile, and sometimes a particularly smarmy frat boy will call me Mrs. on the first couple days of class. I'm surprised my own first name was on the folder. Thought I'd just be Mrs. B. Lastname. The trippiest part? When they are done with my file, it will go on a shelf like this one. Don't they know that files are something on a desktop???

The doctor, who got his degree in 1951, the year before my mother was born, in case you are wondering, was still wearing his golf cleats when he came in the side door of the office. He had a vintage microscope and a light. He wrote a prescription by hand, and he looked up the stuff he was precribing in a book. I would not have been surprised if he were smoking the whole time. No, that's a joke. His waiting room had a needlepoint "Thank You For Not Smoking" sign cleverly designed to look like a needlepoint eye chart.

I am blown away by this doctor's visit because my doctor, whom I love, and Harry's doctor, on whom I have the typical mommy hearts the pediatrician crush, both work in big, impersonal clinics. My doc spends a lot of time on the computer, seeing what medications will both treat my ailment and be covered in generic form by my prescription plan. I haven't really ever gotten a paper script from the doctor. What the hell do I do with it? Is this why pharmacies have "drop off" windows? It's all making sense now. I usually just talk to that nice computer lady on the phone.

Here are some pictures from swimming lessons that do not connect to this opening rant at all, except that we were at swimming lessons before we went to 1955 (oh yeah-- one more thing-- I felt undressed in my tank and jeans. I should have been dressed like this.)









Planty Update:

She bears fruit!