BACHELOR'S DIARY: Dinner or prison, sir?

Diary,

I know my life can seem more dramatic than most go through, but I do have my good days, too. Like most of you, I always face the day in the morning with the optimism of a salesman.

I go through my morning ablutions believing everything will turn out okay. But since my patron saint must have been a court jester; the universe always conspires to mess things up.

Take today, for instance. This afternoon, I found myself headed to prison.

It all started well at the hospital. I didn’t have a heavy patient load, and the most notable was a new older patient.

“My buddy says you’re the best,” he said. “His name’s John. Remember him?”

I didn’t know how to answer. I have a few patients called John. And does “Do I remember him?” mean he’s dead?

“Ah, yes. John.” I began examining the man, hoping to change the topic. “How’s he doing?”

The man game me a look that could cut steel. “He’s, dead, doctor.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. We must be talking about two different Johns. Breathe in for me, please.”

Needless to say, my new patient wasn’t too enthusiastic with me after that. So it was no wonder that he kept peeking at the chart as I filled out his information.

Suddenly, he shot to his feet.

“How dare you!” he roared.

“What?”

“It’s okay if you don’t like me, but did you have to write it on my chart?”

I look at the chart, baffled. “What are you talking about?”

“There!” He stabbed the clipboard where I had written, ‘Major SOB’ and underlined it. I couldn’t help but start laughing. “Yeah? What’s funny about calling me a son of a bitch?”

“No, Haron,” I said. “That’s doctor jargon. It means ‘Major Shortness of Breath’.”

On the other end of the age spectrum, a six-year-old girl came to me with swollen tonsils. As usual, I engaged her in some back-and-forth during the examination.

“So,” said I, “what do you want to be when you grow up?”

“A doctor. I already play doctor with my brother.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the first thing you do when he comes to you?”

With a straight face, she said, “I make him wait for two hours.”

Of course, none of that warranted an arrest. What got me in hot water was a man who busted into my office, completely out of breath.

“Doctor! You have to come with me.”

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“It’s my wife. She’s about to give birth in an Uber.”

I gathered my equipment and rushed outside. Without further ado, I went to the small car, threw the rear door open. I gently guided the woman to lay on her back and lifted her dress.

She slapped me so hard I saw stars.

“What the hell’s wrong with you, pervert,” she screamed.

“I’m here to deliver your baby.”

“I’m not pregnant, you numbskull. She’s in the car behind.”

As it turned out, she was the grandmother-to-be and she was hell-bent on suing me for everything I have.

But first, I had to attend to her pregnant daughter. The daughter was so impressed, she convinced her mother not to sue, and I got invited to dinner.

So, I guess all’s well that ends well.