The Summer I Didn't Lose An Ear, or, The Summer I Lost All My Self-Respect.

Sometimes in life, you have to learn how to just say "no." And that time should come way before you find yourself having a medical professional take Polaroid pictures of you in his personal office space. What follows is the long and torrid story of how I learned that very valuable lesson.

It was the summer of 2007. And it was hot. That's really the only characterization I can give you about the time, because that's all I remember, but I understand that that's like saying, "She worked at Hooters. And she had breasts." Charles Dickens, I am not. Regardless, it was the summer and I had just returned from a wonderful five months abroad in Europe, racking up my cliche college-memories quota. All that was left for me was to do a little sexual "experimenting."

At this point, this story can go one of two ways. One, I can go proceed to tell you about the summer I was a lesbian, and hope someone from penthouse.com is reading. The other way involves no sort of sexual activity whatsoever. My apologies to Larry Flynt, but this story is the latter.

Anyway, I had come home and all was well, except for the fact that, oh, my left ear was in danger of falling off. I will spare you the grim details, but I had developed some sort of strange cut behind my left ear that was in desperate need of medical attention. And five months later, from the time I first realized it was in desperate need of medical attention, I was a few paint brushes short of becoming a modern day Van Gogh. Or Evander Holyfield. Well, minus the whole painting thing. Or being able to box. God, doesn't anyone become famous for just losing an ear anymore?

So, I decided the first thing I needed to do upon reaching US soil was to find a good doctor to take care of my little ailment.
And I had found one. Her name was Betsy and she had been with me through thick and thin, through strep throat, through the flu, and even through 'da Pox (chicken, not small.) That's right, I had found Betsy about 22 years ago, at about the same time when I had found my way out of the womb (and not just any womb, mind you. My own mother's!) And apparently, a 21 year old wishing to still see her pediatrician is a problem. Like some slutty ex-girlfriend who had "found herself" during the first few months of college and came to see me at Thanksgiving break only to dump me, Betsy wanted to terminate our relationship. "But what about the free lollipos?!?", I thought, but then again, who doesn't at the end of any great relationship? Despite my pleas, Betsy wasn't having it. No, take that back, her front desk ASSISTANT wasn't having it! She didn't even have the decency to tell me herself that she wanted to start seeing younger people.

Once I dealt with the painful sting of that rejection, I picked up my self-pride and what free lollipops I could fit in one small, stubby fingered handful, and set out to find someone new. Now, everyone always tell you that there are "other fish in the sea," but that is not the case when the sea is the private health care industry, and the fish is someone who has been denying the onset of adulthood for years and years. I couldn't find anyone within a 50 mile radius who wanted to look at my ear-ailment. Finally, help came in the form of a public health clinic who agreed to fit me in with their resident physician. OK, OK, I know what you're thinking ... I should have known, right? Well, listen, when you live in fear of the day a magician tries to pull a coin from behind your ear and gets just the whole ear, you'll understand why I did what I had to do.

I came for my appointment with ... well, let's call him Dr. Unicorn, because much like unicorns, this guy was UNREAL. He wore Coke bottle-glasses and I kid you not, his business card read, "Dr. Unicorn. M.D.D.D.S" That's right. He was both a physician AND a dentist. I've done the calculations and that meant he had been in school for ... sixty-three years. Give or take a few. But, allow me to get this out right off the bat: The man fixed my ear drama, and for that, I am eternally grateful, as are the many people who speak to me my left side every day of my life. For that, he earns no flack from this lady. But his "bedside manner" ... well, that is a different story.

From the moment he came into the room, he was very intent on telling me about his son, who he reminded me repeatedly, "was about my age." "Wonderful! But now save my fucking ear!", I thought. His son, who was about my age, I mind you, had recently graduated from college and was back living in the area. He son also liked music. Which was a real mind blower, because hey, I like music, too! As does mostly every other human being on the planet. Well, all the ones with fully functioning ears.

After the most awkward doctor's visit of my life, one in which, during the standard doctor-patient dialogue of "are you sexually active?", Dr. Unicorn M.D. D.D.S deemed it necessary to add in, "I'm not trying to suggest anything here," I was all cured. I left his office with Dr. Unicorn telling me that he'd, "tell his son about me" AND giving me his son's e-mail address. But despite all that, I was like brand new and ready to show off my perfectly attached ears in front of Betsy. Life, however, had other plans for me.

Within a few weeks, I found myself sick. Very sick. The kind of sick one only gets from ... visiting a public health clinic? Perhaps. But I needed meds, and the only person I could turn to was, yes ... Dr. Unicorn, M.D. D.D.S.

Despite the promise I had made to myself never to see that man again, I returned to the clinic, hoping Dr. Unicorn would be off at some sort of convention for crazies and I'd be home free. Not so, I learned as I walked into the office and immediately locked eyes with him from across the waiting room. I waved, thinking that would be the appropriate thing to do. Dr. Unicorn, however, took the route of acting like a geeky 6th grader who checks behind himself to see if the cool girl really is waving at him from across the cafeteria. The man was standing in front of a wall. This is the man whose hands I was placing my well-being into. I clearly have a pretty high opinion of the value of my own life.

Dr. Unicorn was not my medical saving grace this time, however. To be honest, I'm not sure his first concern was my illness, either. Why do I think this? Well, perhaps it's because his first words to me were not the standard, "How are you feeling?" or even a "What seems to be the problem?", but a "You never e-mailed my son." Honestly, when is the last time you heard that on House? (I don't actually watch House, so if there is a story line involving House pushing dating his son onto one of his patients, I'm going to feel preeetty foolish.)

As Dr. Unicorn continued to go on about his son's current job situation and how we were, yes, still about the same age, I thought, "how far am I going to let this go?" I also thought, "I think I just coughed up my uterus," but I digress. Dr. Unicorn gave me a medical examination about as thorough as one you would expect from a sorority girl dressed up as a nurse on Halloween (with way less cleavage and way less eating disorders.) He did, however, casually drop in that he would "take a picture of me to show his son."

A picture. Of me. To show his son. And yet, did I run for the door? Did I punch him in the face? Did I report Dr. Unicorn to the authorities in his hometown of LalaLand? No, no, and no. I sat there and I took it. Like a chump. I took it all the way to his office, where he got out a Polaroid camera and actually did, in fact, take a picture of me. Two, to be precise. The first one was a straight headshot, whereas the second was a more artistic half side-profile. This guy was Annie Leibowitz, M.D.D.D.S. I wish I were kidding. So very much. But I'm not, and there's photographic evidence to prove it.

A few weeks later, I got a phone call from a certain individual who is about my age and likes music, apologizing for his father's forwardness. He did not, however, apologize for his father going into my sealed medical records and giving out my phone number, but what can one expect from someone with a horn sticking out of his forehead?

Moral of the story? Never let your fear of losing a body part, even if it was one that can be adorned with jewelry, compromise your morals. Also, I'm a big dumb idiot. Also, you ruined me, Betsy, you ruined me.

Side note: I warned you that it was long and torrid, didn't I?