L.A. Stories- The Wicked Witch of Western Ave.

When I first moved to Hollywood, I came down with the sniffles, and I really needed a doctor for my lady parts. (Don't worry, I won't get too graphic- and if I do, it'll totally be worth it.) As is typically the case when you wish to see a doctor who deals with lady parts, I wanted to see one RIGHT AWAY. After several failed attempts to find a doctor who spoke English and would take new patients, Jay finally found one- near us- on Western Avenue. She could see me that day, so we headed right over.

I took a look at the intensely ratty part of town and was not pleased- and the office was situated in the "Hollywood Cross Medical Plaza," which is a great place to go it you need Mexican phone cards, bail bonds, or waxing. Or, in my case, a gynecological exam. Sigh.

I went upstairs to the office, and was horrified by the filthy lobby. There was actual dirt on the linoleum floors, and cheap plastic folding chairs lazily aligned around cheap fake wood end tables which looked like they'd been chewed on. There was trash on several chairs, including used kleenex and fast food wrappers. There was a small boy scooting a McDonald's toy truck around on the floor, and his knees were black from the filth. My instincts sent up red flags, and I told Jay I wasn't happy- I didn't feel good about the place at all.

He gently reminded me that this was my only option for seeing a doctor today, and if I wanted to be un-itchy, I should suck it up and deal with it. He also reminded me that we were in the city now, and no longer had the luxury of "nice" waiting rooms. I pointed out a crooked picture on the wall, and the "Merry Christmas" sign hanging above it. (This was in July.) I told him that attention to detail is important in medical care, and if they hadn't noticed that it wasn't December, maybe they would overlook things like pharmaceutical interactions or a precancerous mole. He told me that they probably hadn't taken the Christmas sign down because they were busy with patients, and to quit being a snob. That stung a little, so I shut my pie hole and sulked. "I'm not a snob," I thought... am I?

A few minutes later, Jay realized that he'd have to move the car from our metered spot, so he left me in the waiting room while he found a better place. While he was gone, the little anklebiter child dragged his stupid plastic car all over the chairs and floor and tables and eventually across my shoe. I wasn't happy with this. (What can I say- when you're itchy and sick, everything's more obnoxious.) I ignored him but eventually, when he collapsed against my shin, banging my leg against the table and knocking over a stand of yellowed "Diabetes and You" leaflets, I did the unthinkable: I gave his middle-eastern mother an "I'm annoyed with your child" look.

That's right. I stink-eyed the brat's mom. She picked up the hint right away, saw that he'd been climbing on everything, and grabbed him by his elbow- hard. Oops. That wasn't what I wanted- I just wanted her to pay attention to him so he'd quit annoying me. I felt bad.

Then, the poor kid started to quake as his mother marched him over to (presumably) his father, who proceeded to beat the living crap out of him. He slapped (like, really slapped) the child across his face, so, naturally the kid started to cry. Then he started yelling at him in Arabic, and the kid became so scared he stopped crying. The father then slapped the child on his chest and arms, and shoved him while yelling. Buffeted by the blows, the kids knees went out and he curled into a shuddering ball on the floor as his father hit him again and again and again.

...I was shocked- I had no idea what to do, but clearly any interaction or even LOOKING at the kid's dad would've just embarrassed and angered him further. I couldn't breathe and I was tearing up, so I grabbed my purse and ran out of the waiting room before my emotions betrayed me in front of this monster. I didn't want to earn the kid another beating.

When Jay came back from moving the car, he found me huddled in a dirty corner of the upstairs walkway, sobbing. We talked and I cried about how horrible this town was and how dirty everything is. He held me and I calmed down. I was too sick, heartsick and itchy to fight anymore- I just needed a prescription so I could go home. Please, please, just let me go home.

We cautiously re-entered the waiting room- the monster and his wife and child were gone. Eventually, we got in to see the doctor, and she walked into the room talking on her personal cell phone in a language I didn't recognize. She hung up and apologized, placing the cell phone in a loose pocket full of soft, dirty-looking dollar bills. This pocket also held her stethoscope. Knowing how dirty money can be, I was not amused, but her firm man-handshake should've sent me running. At this point I was determined to be stronger in front of my husband, who, thankfully, had accompanied me into the room with this hobgoblin of a doctor.

I told her I was sick and might need antibiotics, and that I was itchy. She asked me what I had. I told her I didn't know, and that since SHE was the doctor I was hoping she could tell me. She asks me if I want an STD test, and I tell her "No, no, there's no way I have any STDs- I think it might be a yeast infection but I want to make sure before I treat it with anything, you know?"

She asks me what kind of antibiotics I wanted, (because apparently it's Patient's Choice at Hollywood Cross) and I told her whatever she thought wouldn't interfere with my other medicine. She asked me what else I was on (which, although I have never been to medical school, I would've asked FIRST,) and then asks me why I'm on it. I tell her the name of my condition and she's never heard of it. Not very reassuring.

I also looked at her shoes- she has size 8 feet stuffed like rectangular sausages into size 6 shoes. The felt slippers were strained, with her knobby hobbit toes clearly outlined in the worn green material.
Finally, she hands me a paper towel and tells me to take my pants off.
"Right here?" I ask.
"Yes, yes!" she answers, and then picks up her ringing cell phone. She talks in her devil-language while I take off my pants, and then hangs up so she can put a glove on. She pulled the glove from the pocket with the dirty money in it.

"Scoot closer," she says. I inch forward. "Scoot, scoot," she croaks at me.

She then jammed what felt like her entire forearm inside me, and it hurt. A Lot. I cried out in pain, and she said, "It's OK, don't jump."
"You're hurting me!"
"It's OK," she says. Tears sting my eyes and I hold my breath. She continues to fish around in what I'm certain are my small intestines, and then says "There's $75 more to do a culture- you want culture?"
Tears are streaming down my face at this point. She's hurting me. Bad.
"You're really talking about money now?!?" I gasp. I was starting to understand how her shoes felt. It felt like my cervix was being branded with a hot iron.
Jay stands up and says, "You're stopping- right now. Just stop."
"Why?" she asks.
"Because you're clearly hurting her!"
I love my husband.
She pulls her meat-hook out of me, and I'm curled up in the fetal position.
"Oh," says Dr. Obvious. "I thought she cried because she is ashamed to be naked. A lot of girls they don't like the exam."
No shit.
She handed me a script for a Z-Pack, the Standard Issue antibiotic, but I couldn't even look at her. I felt like she'd somehow raped me with her fleshy fat hand. I was crying hard at this point. I seriously felt violated.

The office charged us for the culture, and we left. It was an awful day.
Then, when I took my prescription to CVS, they couldn't read her witch-doctor handwriting and had to call to confirm the request. She'd left the office and didn't get back with them for two days.
I hate that woman.

Two weeks later, I was still itchy and we hadn't received the results back from the test. Calling five times produced no results, so Jay and I went back to Barter Town and I demanded either the results or a refund. Miraculously, they produced a sheet of paper that clearly stated that I did not have Gonorrhea. Or Chlamydia. Which, considering I'd gone in with a god-damn yeast infection, was not much of a surprise.

From that point on, I decided to reserve my right to be snobby. My next doctor's appointment was scheduled for Beverly Hills. Why? Because my vagina deserves it, dammit!