“Not my fault!”

—On Wednesday April 22nd Yrs Trly had one of those FaceTime® medical consultations common to our pandemic.
Urology Associates of Rochester called in advance to set up my consult.
Five minutes later my iPhone rang. Normally a FaceTime has a different ring. I answered (????) and we were FaceTime already.
A pretty girl greeted me. She was wearing a mask. Uhm, over Verizon’s cellphone network my kooties are gonna poison that girl, or her kooties me?
“A pretty girl,” I thought to myself. “Gotta make her smile.”
I do that with everyone, no matter what sex they are.
“How are you, Mr. Hughes?” Yada-yada-yada-yada. “Your chart says we removed your prostate five years ago. This is follow-up.”
“Yes, and it wasn’t my ‘prostrate’,” I said.
No laughter, no hint of a smile.
“Years ago I worked at the Messenger newspaper in Canandaigua, and we ran a sports-story about some volleyball-coach resigning because he had “prostrate” cancer.
Slight smile. This lady was too professional.
My doctor is extremely professional, but laughs at “prostrate-cancer.”
How about pleasant bedside manner? Do they teach that?
Heaven-forbid some crackpot like me roil the medical establishment. Where medical professionals are to be worshipped. (Huzza-huzza!)
The main reason I prefer Urology Associates of Rochester, which is outside my medical network, is because I tried my network urologist, and he was a jerk.
Can you say “elitist?” —Like I should bow and scrape?
The girl finally removed her mask.
But I worry about “Urology Associates of Rochester.” Are they becoming elitist? Prior contact was favorable.
A lady-friend bewails her doctor is a jerk. “Would that you didn’t live in Canandaigua,” I tell her. “I drive 8-10 miles to see my extremely professional laugher. With you it would be 15-18 miles.”
Can anyone make that girl laugh? Someone told me laughing gets the endorphins flowing.
For that to happen that girl’s gotta get off her high-horse.