At some point everyone has to make the dreaded trip to a walk-in clinic. Though glad to not be suffering from one of those ill-timed summer flues, I did have a bizarre little raised rash on my left forearm that at first could have been a scrape, but in over a week had not healed in any way and was a little itchy to boot. The last time I ignored such a rash; a charming red bull’s-eye on my back about 10 years ago, it turned out to be Lyme disease. And boy - am I glad I came down with the associated flu symptoms that eventually sent me to the clinic for that rare and unwelcome diagnosis. Better to nip these things in the bud than spend a lifetime in agony.

So there I was the other day, waking up considering a trip to the clinic when I also happened to notice a new red mark on my neck. An inch of dark red that neither hurt nor itched, but sealed the deal - I was taking the morning off to go and be inspected by overworked clinic docs. I had already sussed out a walk-in clinic (on West Broadway here in Vangroovy) that didn’t seem too, too busy about three months previous when struck with strep. Or what I thought was strep. The truth is, every trip to the doctors nowadays ends in the patient doing whatever it was they thought they should do about it in the first place themselves. In that case, wait it out, get some rest, yadda yadda. You see, these days most of the clinic docs are so speedy and unconnected to you that you might as well have texted the details to their cell phone and let them Google it for all the difference and detailed diagnosis you would receive. Such was my headspace as I entered the clinic thinking I should probably just have put some of my boyfriend’s cortisone cream on the rash and wait it out minus the hour long wait in the disease laden waiting room from hell. But visions of Lyme disease pushed me forward. You see, much like bad boyfriends, even though I had already been through the Lyme ringer, even contracting the disease a dozen times in no way gives you an immunity to the little ticks and their poisonous bacterium.

And so, in I went. As one might expect I was immediately faced with what truly must have been the lamest collection of magazines known to medicine. Leave it to Murphy and his laws that of all days I would forget my frickin book this day. There was a selection of snot-laden Today’s Parent and a bevy of heavily sponsored physicians mags neatly arranged on the coffee table. And then along the wall, encased in those laminated folders and attached to large pool cues so that you wont steal them, was an ever so slightly more interesting selection of Canadian Living and McLean’s mags dating from February 2007. Wouldn’t want to lose those gems I suppose. But it was my lucky day, as a women leaving the back room walks past me, sneezes into her hand and then drops her rumpled copy of European Vogue on the table in front of me. I snatch it up and commit to not touching myself for the next hour under any circumstances.

As I read about silly shoes and dresses fit only for pregnant strippers servicing old men with pedophilia-fantasies, I look up and let my eyes wander around the sparsely occupied room (just why exactly is it taking so long if it's not even busy?) at which time my eyes lock on something they can scarcely believe. There on the top hook of the coat rack is my beloved lost hat! That’s right, handmade in Victoria, one of a kind, reversible with a choice of charming patterns on either side and best of all - large enough to fit my monstrously big head. I was sure I had lost it on the bus three months ago just before a trip to Toronto! Upon returning from my trip I even went to the transit lost and found to no effect. I had honestly just - just - gotten over the loss. And there it was! Untouched and unwanted, the receptionist’s inability to update the magazines also meant that she wasn’t culling the lost and found anytime this decade. I had clearly forgotten the trip to said clinic, wiped it from my memory perhaps, and hadn't once thought to look there. Oh the joy! My hat returned. Well this visit wasn’t going to be a total waste of time after all. And what's this? My turn at bat?

I make my way to the secondary waiting room and wait some more. After a relatively short and educational waiting period where I scan the graphic warning posters on the cubicle walls, the very same doctor who saw me last time enters. His hands unwashed, his eyes dart nervously towards the door in hopes of early escape. But despite scoring my long lost hat I would still like a little attention for my wounds. I hop on the papered table; he takes out a magnifying device and gives both marks a good looking over. Well, a couple of seconds at any rate. Enough to make him slip out quickly for a sample tube of - you guessed it - cortisone ointment with a hint of antibiotic, and then to advise me to apply lightly to both rashes three times a day and then come back and see him next week. Him. Whoever that is, as you never really get introduced. And he is gone before I can even..er..thank him. How positively prostitutional. But I am happy with the cream and my hat and I skip off with a wave and a smile for the much abused receptionist.

Not feeling much like going to work now, I reward myself for the associated trauma by taking the rest of the day off to go shopping for something to wear on the weekend. A short while later I find myself in the privacy of a changing room at Winners (quel supris?), where I decide to get a head start on applying my newfound remedy. I little dab of ointment on my forearm, and then a wee dab on my neck. But as I go to rub it into the mark on my neck I am struck by the colour of the mark. In this overly lit change room I can see now just how perfectly it matches my lipstick. The kind of all-day lipstick that stays on in a tsunami. And as I rub a little ointment on it, yup, the mark comes off quite nicely. That’s right. I just had a doctor prescribe a cortisone/antibiotic cream to cure me of a lipstick smear. Incredible. I laugh loudly and unnervingly in the change room, causing the ladies nearby to wonder if the bathing suit I’m trying on really looks all that bad.

Later in the day I have just gotten off the bus when my cell phone rings, though it took me a while to notice it ringing as I mistook it for the car next to me cranking its tinny radio. I answer and through the crackle I find that it is the bus driver of the very bus I just got off of - calling me! How fresh! But listen, he has found my monthly bus pass and is waiting at the stop for me to return and claim it. No really. I turn and look back a few blocks, and sure enough he is waiting. I run to him and retrieve it with my biggest grin and an incredulous thank you – this would never have happened in Toronto. The clinic part sure – but a friendly transit employee? I think not. And it sure beat waiting three months for it to be returned, expired and not nearly as welcome as my hat. Such a nice driver, handsome even. And such attention to detail too, perhaps he should consider going into medicine…

My lucky day...for your reading pleasure.

-CVM