A doctor's office is designed to intimidate you as soon as you walk in the door.

The receptionist is hidden in a sound-proof glass booth, sliding back the little beveled door just enough to allow you the barest of access to her inner sanctum and then she shutS you back out, again, with the flick of a wrist.

She makes you wait past you appointment time, calling everyone sitting around reading old magazines before she calls you. When she gets to your name, she always use the last name, like you're in prison or an army recruit.

Then someone takes your vitals-- writing down what your body reveals, in secret files that you don't get to look at, using terms that are so technical you don't even know what it means.

You're slapped down on a table, nearly naked, while the doctor spends less than ten minutes with you, jamming things in your ear, mouth, nose and ass and blinding you with his little doctor flashlights he carries.

Then he tries to get you pay for expensive procedures you don't need.

*****

"A CAT scan? What for?" I asked.

"I'm concerned about the convulsions," said the doctor. "A scan could tell us if there is a lesion on your brain or not."

"Wouldn't the doctors who treated me after the car accident have caught it?"

"Not necessarily. Doctors make mistakes."

"So you could be making a mistake right now?"

He sputtered and went red. "Yes, it's possible that..."

"Then forget it. If you could be making a mistake, then it would just be money out of my pocket into yours. For no good reason."

"I have to object. Untreated, your convulsions could worsen..."

"Yeah, yeah. I could get struck by lightening, too. Get me my bill. I want to get out of this dump."