I’m Going to Procrastinate–When I Get Around to It

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I’m Going to Procrastinate–When I Get Around to It

Procrastination
is my go-to method for dealing with things I don’t want to do –procrastination
for as long as possible.

Going to the doctor is one of the things I most want not to do. It started when I was a kid and Dr. Green gave me my first shot and a green lollypop. I hate green lollypops. Today, I’m a grownup and I have choices. The answers I choose for when will I make an appointment with a doctor is,

“I’ll get around to it.”

My
back went out. I complained – a lot – to everybody. “Go to a doctor,” they said.

“I
will,” I said, “when I get around to it.”
After weeks of pain and whining, I took a step. I asked around and got
the name of a doctor who was touted to be the best in the field. But I didn’t
call it, even though I wanted to trust her. I spent some days giving myself
affirmations. “The doctor is qualified. She went to medical school. I won’t
hate her. She won’t make me wait in a room full of coughing, wheezing, sick
people and germ-infested magazines for an hour. She will make the pain go
away.”

With
my bolstered resolve, I dialed the phone. Her receptionist answered.

“I’m
Ruthi Birch and I’d like to schedule an appointment because I’m having back
pain.”

“Sure.
When do you wanna come?”

“Well,
if she’s available, this Thursday would be good for me.”

“She’s
open pretty much all day. You want 10,11, 1,3?”

“One
o’clock.”

“Okey-dokey.
Bring your ID and insurance information.”

Sensing
she was about to hang up, I asked, “Do you want my name and contact
information?”

“No.
I have your name, Ruby Birch.”

“No,
it’s Ruthi Birch,” I spelled it for her, and gave her my email address to send
a confirmation.

“Okay,
got it.”

I hung
up the phone feeling doubtful. This doctor didn’t seem to have a lot of
patients if she could see me any time, but my back hurt and she was supposed to
be able to fix it, so I rationalized. Maybe she wasn’t busy because it was a
Thursday. Restaurants are slow on Mondays. Maybe Thursdays are slow for
doctors.

On
Thursday morning, I realized I hadn’t gotten an email from the doctor’s office,
so I called just to make sure there was no change, before I’d leave work and drive
forty-five minutes to her office. The same woman answered.

“This
is Ruthi Birch I’m calling to confirm my one o’clock appointment.”

“Sure.
Can you hang on a sec?”

She
didn’t put me on hold, so I could hear her conversation with someone who asked,
“Do you want falafel for lunch. I’m ordering.” She said. “Sure. Let me get my
wallet.”

When
she came back, she asked, “Can you spell your name for me?”

I could spell it, so I
did.

“I
don’t see you on the schedule.”

“I
believe it was you I spoke with on Tuesday and I thought we set the appointment
for today.”

“I
guess it’s my bad,” she said, in such a cute way. “I must
have left it off the schedule, but no problem. You can come anyway. She’s not
busy.”

“I
guess I’d better come. My back is getting worse.”

“Your
back?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,
no. You can’t come for that today.

“Why?”

“You’ll
need an x-ray. We can’t do that today. The machine’s down. We have to
reschedule. When do you want to come?”

“Thanks. I’m not sure. I’ll have to
call back.”