Waiting Room Chronicles: The Jaw, Dr Longtime, and the Charlotte County Karen

Today was a whole damn journey, and I lived it with my face morphine-seasoned and my soul vibrating on the neurospicy struggle bus headed straight for Not Today Satan Drive.

Let’s rewind.

My jaw’s been a mess since I wiped out on my scooter the other day (spoiler: concrete wins every time). I was bracing myself for possible surgery, but I showed up to my appointment a full 30 minutes early like the vaguely organized chaos gremlin I am.

But when I arrived? Clinic 1 was already jammed full. Every other doctor had seen their patients. At the busiest point - only one remained... Dr. Longtime. Cue suspense music.

There were six of us left in the freezing waiting room—literal human popsicles—wrapped in coats, asking for blankets because hello tundra A/C, while the receptionist repeated the same exhausted mantra:

“I know he’s an hour behind. I’m sorry. No, we don’t know why. He’s just... doing patients at his rate.”

And let me tell you. That "rate"? It was slower than dial-up internet in 1996. 

Enter: the Charlotte County Karen™️. Not technically a nurse, but she’ll have you know she does home care, which is more work than nursing, and also most nurses are useless. (Her words. Not mine. Please don't sue me, actual nurses—I love you.)

Karen came with her teen son, who sat quietly with his visibly injured jaw. I didn't even realize he was hers until she loudly started planning McDonald’s for the drive home.

"You can have a milkshake or something."

Because that’s totally what every broken jaw needs: a frosty reminder of your limited food future. Poor kid. Did I mention how beyond exhausted her poor suffer-worn husband looked? I feel like he's used "yes dear" so much the words are etched into the wrinkles of his immortal soul, long into the afterlife he'll still be repeating "yes dear" and only you and I will truly know why.

Anyway. As I sat there clutching my own face in pain—morphine 5mg only goes so far, I realized half the room had the same appointment time: 10:30 a.m. And somehow, despite arriving early, I was after this lady on the list. When my number was called first? Ohhh the LOOK I got. It was pure, uncut resentment. I may as well have stolen her front-row seats to the Rapture.

Finally—finally—I was called into the Inner Sanctum of Dr. Longtime, aka The Exam Room.

Now, let me be clear: the man knows his stuff. He’s highly rated. He’s clearly skilled. But… bedside manner?

Think: “bossy school principal crossed with a low-empathy podcast bro.”

Before he even said hello, he launched into:

“So first off, this is going to hurt. There’s nothing that can be done about that.”

I was literally just holding my face quietly. No complaints, no whining. Just a solid side-eye and patience. But sure, doc. Thanks for the pain pep talk? 

To be honest, I let him monologue. I got the information I needed and decided to protect my peace. I’d already heard him arguing with a man in the next room about not writing him off work, even though the poor guy wasn’t even asking to be written off, just asking the doctor to confirm his job restrictions.

Man: “I need you to tell them I can’t lift.”

Doc: “I’m not writing you off work.”

Man: “I didn’t ask you to??”

Doc: “I’m not writing you off work.”

Man: “We’re done here.”

Dr Dink; Mansplaining Longtime..

Just vibes all around. 🙃

BUT!

Here’s the actually good part:

✨ NO surgery.

✨ The scary side of my jaw? Not dislocated anymore—either it was a bad read on the scan or my stubborn bones healed themselves out of spite.

✨ The left side is fractured, yes—but it’s non-separated and should heal with time, rest, and slow food.

✨ Worst-case scenario? I lose 2mm of height on one side of my jaw. And babe, if 2mm ruins my face, we were never meant to be.

✨ Follow-up in 3 weeks. Healing time: about 6.

So yeah. Long day. Weird day. Freezing cold. Loud, chaotic, full of miscommunication, random political (Ohh Karen) rants (Trudeau caused all the long wait times ever), and unsolicited (again, Karen?) tattoo horror stories (she saw at least 50 in her line of work, the ruination of pretty young girls, how are they gonna find husbands all mutilated like that?). But I made it through. I held onto my dignity (and my mashed-up face, and my "mutilated" ink), and so tonight?

I’m curling up with a warm $1.77 Swanson chicken pie, a splash of gravy, and a purring cat named Sugar who knows exactly where to park her fuzzy butt to make everything better.

Here’s to soft food, soft moments, and never seeing that waiting room again. Or at least for another 3 weeks to follow-up and this time - I'll remember to bring a coat!