Headline Act: Seriously, doctor?

In the early hours last Thursday, I was awakened by a sharp pain in my abdomen. I pride myself on not being a sickly individual. Whenever one of the boys complains about how his "brain hurts", I always bark: "Are you a man or a sissy?"

However, this was different: the abdominal cramps were quite severe. I knew it was serious when my two-year-old found me on the bathroom floor, clutching my torso, a tear rolling down one cheek. He giggled and said: "Sissy." So, when my wife insisted I go to the doctor, my protests were only half-hearted. I'm not a great fan of Western medicine because it's so complicated.

Back in the day, there was no ailment my ancestors couldn't fix with some cow dung, tears from a pregnant hyena and a baobab twig. If that failed, they'd toss some bones and blame your mother-in-law. So, as soon I knew I was going to the doctor, I started hyperventilating. My wife started laughing hysterically.

I have many problems with the whole doctor's appointment routine. My first problem is the use of that word, "appointment" to characterise the orgy of disrespect that takes place. In my 38 years, I have never seen a doctor at the agreed-upon time.

On this Thursday morning, as I sat in the Medicross waiting room, I realised something. The pain always stops as soon as I get to the waiting room. Do they blow anaesthetic vapour through the air conditioners? Also, there is something morbid about waiting in a room with a bunch of other sick people. I've shared many times how I tend to worry about all the wrong things. Opposite me was a woman with carrot-coloured hair and, I swear, a green face, coughing her lungs out. Now I'm sitting there holding my breath to avoid inhaling her aerosol, trying to remember the H1/N1 thingamaswine symptoms.

Finally, it's my turn. I'm pretty confident that colds and flu contribute the lion's share of GPs' cash flow, which is why I'm convinced they keep their office at sub-Antarctic temperatures. Repeat business and all that. Now I'm busy explaining my problem, but I'm too intrigued by the fact that I can see my own breath in this morgue. And I can tell he's not really listening because he's smiling at the inappropriate parts of my ordeal.

Before I even get to the punch line about my wife likening me to a woman in labour, he cuts me short and, in a chilling voice reminiscent of a villain in a cheap '80s Stephen King movie, says, "Let's have a look at you." Next thing I know, I'm lying on my back on a bed so hard you could roll perfect pizza dough. Now he's unbuttoning my shirt. Boy, am I glad I put on my good drawers. I start shivering and my skins starts getting bumpy.

I'm sure when doctors recite the Hippocratic Oath, they are using code language to pay homage to an extraterrestrial power. If doctors were human, I'm sure they'd dip that metal part of a stethoscope in some lukewarm water before making contact with one's skin. Instead, I bet they giggle as they shove those bastards in a freezer hidden in a secret compartment. Lying there on that coroner's table, half-naked, I knew there had to be a better way.

Of course, my humiliation was not complete. The god with a stethoscope just had to knead my mountain of a gut like a lump of dough, barely hiding his contempt. Apparently I've been treating my body like it's a Durban harbour hooker; I need to lose weight or I'll grow holes in my gut. And the coup de grâce is no food that tastes like food or beer for 30 days.

That's correct. I paid a man hundreds of rands to strip me down, humiliate me, tell me I'm fat and prohibit me from anything enjoyable for a month. As I left, I realised I needed the name of a good inyanga. Can anybody help?