by Lou Godbold
“Goldberg? Ms. Goldberg?”
“Er, my name's Godbold. Are you calling me?”
“Right this way, Ms. Goldberg. Now if you'd just take a seat I'll pull up your medical record.”
“God-bold. My name's Godbold.”
“Now let me see, Goldstein, Goldsmith, we don't have a Goldberg, Louise.”
“That's because my name isn't Goldberg.”
“I'm sorry, I just glanced at it briefly. Let's see, Goldbold.”
“Actually, it's God, Godbold.” I attempt a smile, “Can't confuse God with gold,” (at least, not if you've been listening to the series on idolatry at my church.)
“Uh-huh.” She doesn't look convinced. Perhaps she's set up an altar to a golden calf in the staff lounge.
“The name means, ‘good and brave.'”
“Oh, you've done that genial-ology thing?”
“Your family told you?” she asks suspiciously, perhaps thinking they'd got it wrong and it was Goldberg all along.
“Yes. My family has lived in Britain since about the year five hundred.”
“Ah, they went through the Holocaust and all that?”
“No, we're Anglo-Saxon!”
“Oh, sorry, I thought you said you were Jewish. So, Ms. Goldbold, what is the reason for your visit today?”
“Regular check up.”
“Okay.” She types something into the computer. “And what is your first language?”
All rights reserved.
I never visit my healthcare provider without coming away with some theatre-of-the-absurd dialogue. God bless Kaiser Permanente for paying their nursing assistants peanuts.