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Xandra 2
Xandra 3
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| The school doctor (Doc, from here on) was a regular visitor to the school. He appeared to be in his sixties, and his white hair seemed to be caught in perpetual mid-explosion. He was not much more than five feet tall. He always wore the same camel sport coat, with a randomly selected shirt and inevitably clashing pants (usually navy hound's tooth) and a short rust brown tie that looked like it was crafted from a crocheted potholder. Despite his comically short legs, his pants were always a tad short and invariably revealed an uninspired choice of socks. If this clears things up for anyone, he bore a notable resemblance to Martin Van Buren wearing lawn sale leftovers. He smiled a lot, closed lipped, hummed to himself, and his waddling gait caused his outsized medical bag to bump against his legs as he walked. He was pulling off a latex glove (bad sign) with his back turned to us when Nurse told me to sit down on an adjustable chrome-legged stool, upon which she ostentatiously placed a paper towel for my bare butt to sit on. She managed somehow to pantomime that this was done in consideration of the chair and not me. She sidled up to the doctor and leaned into his ear and spoke for what seemed an unaccountably long time. How long should it take to say "I think she's stoned"? His black bag lay on the floor beside me. A freshly opened pack of Winstons lay conspicuously amid the jumble of shining items. Regrettably, it is at this point I must disclose that Xandra, at the risk of offending the fickle sensibilities of any male souls she has managed to charm in this odd tale, was presented with a new life challenge. The last two years of my parent's marriage were hell for me. Trust me... Well, the thing is, I sort of developed a bowel condition that could go from "no problem" to "run for you life" instantly and without warning once a certain level of emotional strain was reached. I had reached that point. Suddenly, I had a colon full of hot magma, pressurizing from within, accompanied by burning cramps: an intestinal time bomb. 'Nuff said? Good. One rule to remember: keep butt clenched shut no matter what. I spent the next minute playing a losing game of "let's not think about latex gloves". Doc walked over to me, mouthing that nonsense patter old doctors get good at as he looked at my exam form. "Xandra. Golly, that's a nice name. No matter how old I get I keep hearing new names... Is that Dutch?" I nodded as that precluded any expectation of elaboration. He scored a point or two by not calling me "Exandra". It was at that moment that he realized I was naked . My modest rack could be pretty well concealed with only slightly contrived posings. He cleared his throat and quickly directed his attention to his clipboard. "Well, we'll, uh... take a look at... if I can find my... where in hell?" He rummaged through his bag and eventually discovered that the opthalmoscope had been in his pocket all along. He put his hand on top of my head and zoomed into my right eye, then my left. The brilliant light left me effectively blinded for a moment. He had ashtray breath. This was good. Less likely to notice a pot smell. He brushed my scarlet hair back over my ears and inspected them, then he felt the glands along my neck and jaw line. He looked down my throat. "Say, ah." I exhaled as little as possible, still worried about pot odor. His finger discovered a void where a bicuspid should have been. He didn't ask. He wrote some stuff on the clipboard. "If I could ask you to stand up for a moment..." He thumped my upper chest a few times with his pudgy, bunched fingertips and it produced a hollow sound. I wondered what that was supposed to prove. He placed the stethoscope tips in his ears. I dropped my hands down to my sides so he wouldn't have to ask me to. A cramp made me cringe; I clenched my butt tighter. He told me to breathe deep as he moved the disc to various locations on my upper chest. He stepped back. "Could you?" He cupped his hand and made a slight lifting gesture. I knew what he meant . I went to lift my left breast, but Nurse intervened. "Allow me," she said as she waddled from the corner. Her chilly hand lifted my breast as Doc, who seemed somewhat perplexed by Nurse's unsolicited assistance, placed the stethoscope over my pounding heart. Nurse discretely eyed her watch, counting. The bitch was gathering evidence. My blabbermouth heart, spilling my secrets. So frigging humiliating. Doc listened for what seemed a long time. I focused doggedly on the top of his balding head, avoiding the wilting heat of Nurse's pop-eyed scrutiny. It was a surrealistic scene: Doc of the Seven Dwarfs examines Xandra, naked Amazon princess warrior as Jaba the Hutt lends a hand. Finally Doc stepped away and folded the stethoscope. Nurse retreated smugly to her corner; she'd gotten the goods she wanted. "Okay, " Doc said, "now I'll ask you to lie down and then we'll be done." I climbed awkwardly on to the exam table, keeping my butt cheeks clamped shut. I lay down on the paper sheet set over the the liver-colored vinyl pad and stared at the pattern of holes in the ceiling above me. I tried very hard not to think. Doc felt my flattened breasts and squeezed my nipples. Then he left for a moment and put on a latex exam glove. I quickly attempted to compose a respectful, yet unambiguous statment that would halt the exam instantly if it took a rectal route. It is difficult to translate the sentence "Leave my asshole alone" into anything I felt comfortable saying to someone's granddad ("Please don't check my rectum," was the best I could do). He examined my, well... crotch. Not an internal exam (yes, I can hear a bunch of you guys groaning with disappointment, but your titillation is not my primary concern here). He just took a quick peek in the old mail slot, and that was it. I was feeling none too horny, anyhow. "One more thing..." he said. I was about to deliver my anal admonition when I felt my toes being spread. Checking for athlete's foot. A problem at the school. He looked to Nurse. "Bring the young lady her clothes." Crisply- no "please"; this was an order. A second time, with a stronger hint of testiness. "Bring...her...her...clothes." Nurse retrieved my sweater, slacks, and socks. He helped me sit up with a hand on my back. Doc asked me very softly, "You okay?" I nodded as I looked into his brown M&M eyes. He squeezed a Kleenex into my palm and then rubbed the back of my hand with his thumb. I surprised myself by saying, "Thank you, Doctor." I got dressed with all the haste I could manage with my limited range of motion, and I left. "What Have I Done to Deserve This?", a song peaking at about that time, played from a tinny radio in the home ec. room. Interesting question, that; the answer was plenty. I found my way to a seldom-used girls room and experienced a complete physical, emotional, and spiritual meltdown. God saw to preserving my solitude at my most vulnerable of moments. EPILOGUE- The T&A aspects of my story end here, but a number of noteworthy things happened as a result of that morning of ten years ago that may interest some readers. First, I spent the next week waiting for the proverbial ax to fall. Nurse needed the time and the inclination to snare me, both of which she had. Every time the phone rang at home, I thought it was a call from the school "to discuss a matter of concern that has been brought to our attention" with Mom- I know how those bastards talk. The days went on and I felt the cloud of doom slowly lift. Then it happened. I came in the house from sunbathing on a freakishly hot spring day- a Saturday. Mom had her"we-need-to-talk" face on. "Xandy, how come you didn't tell me about the physical they gave you at school?" I'd been nailed by mail. I shrugged. I knew it wasn't too late; she customarily just checked the general topic of any correspondence upon opening and would read it later at night after supper. "I dunno. I forgot, I guess." I knew I had to get a hold of the letter. I found it on the kitchen table and brought it into the bathroom. It was a photocopy of the exam form. My hands shook so much that I had to lay it down on the counter to read it. Nurse's machine-like font was easy enough to read: My BP was 136/88. I had a tougher time with Doc's geezer script. I could see plenty of "normals" written along side various checks, but an ominous string of scribbles resided alongside "HEART". After considerable analysis I determined that Doc had written "S1 and S2 normal- no murmur", and then in parenthesis he had scrawled "(and basically in the right place)." This was an odd and ambiguous statement and rather unclinical in tone, I thought. I uneasily decided that that was what the chest thumping routine had established... Yes, that was it... well, maybe. In any case it sounded good to me, if a bit puzzling. Not the sort of thing it pays one to think too hard about. In comments, he wrote: "Examinee underweight, but well-nourished. Muscular + skeletal dev. -good. BP high normal range (nerves). No limit on phys. activity evident": I passed. I am not working from memory; I preserved this document for a number of reasons, some of which you will soon understand. I did not become a better daughter overnight, but for the first time my nasty episodes were followed by periods of profound remorse. I learned to keep my less supportive moods to myself. I never considered smoking pot again. When I catch a whiff of it now it causes a curious Pavlovian reaction in my bowels. I studied voice at a small local college after graduation. I grew another inch in height and gained a dozen or so "smoothing" pounds. My androgynous Dutch Boy hairstyle and its House of Crayola dye job gave way to my natural blonde hair and a "standing wave" hairdo that pushed my apparent height past six feet. Two years after my high-school graduation, at the behest of a demanding and somewhat misguided benefactor, I was pushed into representing the area at the state beauty pageant, the winner of which would go on to the Miss America pageant. I did not win, nor did I care to, but the experience was worth all the hassle and embarrassment it caused me, when I got to sing "Johnny Angel" in the talent competition. I truly brought the house down (in emerald satin, big hair & full war paint!). I sincerely hope all of you get to have at least one moment like that in your lives. Really... My alliance with my benefactor soured soon after that, in part because of my refusal to get a boob job. I'm not kidding about not wanting to win; a recurrent nightmare theme with me is if I had won. I'm more of a thinker than a talker and it's a job for an extrovert. The year following that, Doc's obituary appeared in the local paper. The obituary, apparently written by his widow, spoke with unusual frankness about his life. He started his career as a brilliant neurosurgeon in Philadelphia; he left that in the late Sixties to overcome an addiction to prescription medication. When he returned to medicine, he dedicated his life to public service. She wrote of his "repayment policy that kept him in bad cars and shabby clothes". She went on to quote him as saying that the nicest thing he could give another person was another chance to succeed, as he felt he'd been given more than his share. His humanitarianism continued even after he knew his lung cancer was terminal. He had two daughters. I keep this obit stored with my exam form, a small memorial to the day my life got better. I sent a letter to his wife. I told her that her husband had helped me during the most difficult time in my life and I would never forget him. I signed my name (I was a minor local celebrity by then). I hope that Doc, in what turned out to be the last year of his life, knew that the confident, smiling and attractive young woman who appeared on the front page of the paper, was two years before, the scared-to-death and troubled girl whose heart, he knew, was basically in the right place... I will always remember with appreciation and affection this kindred spirit who had the wisdom and kindness to give me what I needed the most: another chance to succeed. © 1998 Xandra! |
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