Dr. Boots

I call my orthopedic surgeon “Dr. Boots,” because she wears these sexy boots that stand in sharp contrast to the plain white doctor jacket she wears. They’re like biker boots or something, I don’t know. Black leather and high-heels and faux-fur around the tops. I don’t call her “Dr. Boots” out loud. Not to her face. It’s a private joke, just for me and the warm interior of my head.  

     While I’m sitting on the examining table, waiting, I inventory the room.

     A poster that says, Finding Answers so you can Reach Your Full Potential! It shows people jogging, biking, rock climbing, etc. A lot of lens flares. There’s a desk with two chairs, a computer, a third chair that rolls on casters, a telephone, a used-needle receptacle, a hazardous-material hamper, a suture kit, a box of sanitary wipes, Purell hand sanitizer, a sink, a children’s book called Venus and Tara and the Big Game, a Cosmopolitan, a National Geographic, and the examination table adorned with a crisp paper tablecloth. The room smells like cotton and gauze and the ghost of a disinfectant.

     There is no clock as I sit and wait for Dr. Boots. I realize my nickname for her is a lame attempt at control, a way to diminish her status as an authority figure. I need to take these doctors down a peg. I feel ashamed of myself.

     She arrives carrying a clipboard; a list of my secrets. “Hi, sorry to keep you waiting,” she tells me. She gets behind the desk. I take a seat across from her.

     “Oh, that’s okay.”

     “Your blood pressure is a little high. Are you nervous?”

     “Always,” I say, forcing myself.

     She examines my messed-up elbow. In two weeks she will be cutting it apart and operating on my bones.

     You would think I’d have more on my mind than her boots.