The pedia-who?

Like many Tufts juniors, I spent my junior spring studying abroad in Sevilla, Spain _ the beautiful capital of Andalucia. The five months I spent in Europe were the best five months of my life, hands down. I returned to the States on June 25 with a newfound appreciation for relaxation, a different outlook on America, a better understanding of myself, and to paraphrase the legendary poet Black Rob, a stomachache like whoa!

At first I thought the surging pain in my abdominal region was merely a simple case of food poisoning.

"Maybe you should get it checked out before you go back to school," my mom said to me.

"I don't need to go to the doctor," I told her. "It's nothing. Besides, I'm a big college boy, I can take care of myself!"

"Really? Then why have I been cooking every meal for you this summer and doing your dirty laundry?" she replied with a sarcastic satisfaction. "Next thing you know you'll want me to shave your random little patches of facial hair!"

She did have a good point, and after nearly two months and three excruciatingly painful flare-ups, I gave in and went to see good ol' Doc Warner.

Doc Warner is the local pediatrician and has been treating me ever since I was a wee-little twerp. I hadn't seen the good doctor for quite some time, and as I swung open the glass door to his office it dawned on me that maybe a 21-year-old man isn't fit to see a pediatrician anymore _ regardless of whether he cooks his own food or washes his own clothes.

After checking in at the front desk, I took the last seat in the "well section." What I never understood is that the "well section" and "sick section" each consist of a single row of seats facing each other. The explanation for this is quite simple: doctors are a cunning and greedy bunch.

Although it is dishonest, conniving, and in no way justifiable, I have to give Doc Warner credit; he's a hell of a businessman. My guess is that he learned this ingenious seating arrangement in medical school while studying air-born germs in conjunction with the famous equation, more sickness = more money.

The real beauty of air-born germs is that whether they're real or not, they're a surefire revenue generator for doctors around the world.

Assuming air-born germs are real, kids sitting in the "sick section" will infect those sitting in the "well section" by sneezing, coughing, wheezing, snarfing, scarfing, or breathing heavily. On the other hand, even if air-born germs are a hoax it will not stop paranoid parents from panicking after their children have been exposed to the dreaded "sick section."

Both cases usually lead to the same end: more sick children, more trips to the doctor, and therefore, more money.

At that point I decided to vacate my seat in an attempt to avoid the germs of the little 5 year-old boy who sat directly across from me, spitting up golf ball size wads of phlegm and coughing harder than a 4-pack-a-day smoker. As I got to my feet I tripped on one of the many matchbox cars scattered across the floor (yet another sly way Doc Warner tries to inflate the medical bills). When I regained my balance and stood up I found myself face to face with Patricia Pawluk, a girl I had had a crush on since ninth grade. She wasn't the most intelligent girl, but she had two things going for her in high school _ she was pretty and popular.

"Patricia, how are you doing? I haven't seen you in so long," I said to her.



"Hey..." Her awkward pause and squinty eyes told me she had no clue who I was. "I know...it's been a long time...umm...how are you doing?"

"Do you remember me? I'm Adam Goodman, I sat two rows behind you in tenth grade English."

"I knew that!" she lied. "Alan Goodman, I remember you."

"Adam...my name is Adam Goodman."

"What? When did you change your name to Adam?" she inquired as a confused and puzzled look enveloped her countenance.

"No, my name has always been Adam."

"Oh, wow! Huh," she squeaked. "I always thought your name was Alan. Didn't you use to have a lot of zits on your face, too?"

While contemplating how to respond to her gracious question, I noticed two silver dollar-sized chestnut brown eyes peering intently at me from the baby carriage parked two feet behind her.

"Whoa, is that your baby?" I asked with a dash of disbelief in my voice.

"Yeah, that's Parker. Parker just had an appointment with Dr. Warner."

"Parker, that's a handsome name. He has striking eyes."

"Ugh! Parker is a girl, and her name is beautiful, not handsome," she retorted, as her nose rose into the air and her puffy lips tensed up.

"Why are you here anyways, Adam? You don't still go to the pediatrician, do you? Because that would be, like, totally pathetic."

My mind instantaneously zoomed into hyper mode. Think of an excuse, think of an excuse, think of an excuse, make it up, make anything up, say something! The sooner you say something the sooner it will all be over.

"Well...uh...no, I'm here to pick up, uh... my little sister. Yeah, I'm here to get her. I stopped going to Dr. Warner a couple years ago. I was getting too old for..."

Just then the scratchy voice of the head nurse began to speak into the intercom and cut me off.

"Adam Goodman, Adam Goodman, Doctor Warner is ready to see you."

After my appointment I realized that I didn't care that I had made a fool of myself in front of Patricia. It would never happen again. Nor did I care that my stomach had begun to violently gurgle. I had made it. My last visit to the pediatrician was a thing of the past. I no longer had to fear adolescent, air-born, waiting room viruses. I was now a man _ a man who cooks for himself and does his own laundry, and so what if I have patchy facial hair?