At least you got a lollipop when it was over.
When I was a youngster, I dreaded a visit to my pediatrician, Dr. Fiegoli. Because there was pain involved. Vaccinations, always in the most tender part of the arm. Sometimes a needle in the ass. And, with his Snidely Whiplash-like moustache and booming voice, it was tough to find a comforting moment while you were lying on that wax paper.
"OOOH, NOW THAT DIDN'T HURT, DID IT?"
I'd look at him with acute indignation. Are you fucking kidding me??? Or whatever the five-year-old version of that expletive is.
As I wrote a few weeks back, Dr. Fiegoli made house calls when I was sick at home. Even the doorbell heralding his arrival gave me shudders. But, when I was healthy and needed to see him for the annual physical or some school-mandated shots, I was dragged to his home. The waiting room was quiet. Serene. As comfortable as your grandmother's living room. The only thing missing was plastic slipcovers. But, beyond the door, there were sinister doings at hand. Enter past that portal and your body openings and extremities didn't stand a chance.
Yep, Dr. Fiegoli was going to take the simple act of looking into your ear and turn it into an act of pre-meditated violence.
My wails would start as soon as I was put on the examining table. Frequently, my mother was his appointed accomplice. Holding me down like Bruno Sammartino trying to pin Gorilla Monsoon on last Saturday night's episode of Heavyweight Wrestling. Now I eyed both of them suspiciously. Did they plan these manuevers in advance? Don't you realize I'm just a kid??
One visitation to Dr. Fiegoli's House of Horrors ended very differently, though. Usually, the bestowing of an all day sucker was performed after he was done probing the one-hour sucker that was me. But, oddly, my mom and I were led into his office. Have a seat, please. I was confused. And I only caught every other word out of his mouth.
"Should have...concerned...maybe a problem...surgery...Mount Vernon Hospital."
I looked at my mom. She had a worried look on her face. Obviously, Dr. Fiegoli was not talking to her about last week's episode of "Ben Casey." I surveyed the situation at hand and applied my kindergarten-grown logic.
I'M DYING!
My non-audible scream morphed into tears. I was consoled immediately. It would be okay, said Dr. Fiegoli. Oh, and, here, Mom, is the card of a recommended surgeon.
GASP! WAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
At home, over the soothing influence of some Bosco-infused milk, my mother explained the issue at hand. To paraphrase for those of you with weak hearts, something in the groinecological area (thank you, Archie Bunker) had not happened as it normally would have in a BOY of my age. So, to prevent complications way down the puberty road, it was wise to have it taken care of now. With surgery. Back then, there was no such thing as an outpatient procedure. You were knocked out, cut up, sewed back together, and it all required an overnight stay. My mom got a little off-topic by starting to talk about all the ice cream I would get to eat after the operation. Er, excuse me, lady, we ain't talking tonsils here.
"Oh. Right."
The specter of this surgery hung over my head for a while. And then it was rarely talked about at all. In fact, it was pretty much ignored. The good news is that my parents never pressed the point. The bad news is that my parents never pressed the point. And, eventually, the visits to Dr. Fiegoli became infrequent. There were virtually no annual physicals. The problem was there. The problem wasn't there. Even I forgot all about it.
Until years later...
And how that's for a Sunday Memory Drawer cliffhanger. The saga continues next week.
Dinner last night: Sausage cacciatore @ Miceli's.
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