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Dr. Waggoner chuckled.
"Ah, the Internet. It gives everyone a doctorate in medicine. "
Weston did the open his mouth and say "aaaaah" thing, then said, "I know I'm not a doctor, but I checked a lot of sites, and the things in my stool, they don't look like tapeworm segments. "
"Stones and fabric, you said. Can you be more specific?"
"The stones are sort of white. Some very small, like flecks. Other times bigger. "
"How big?"
"About the size of my thumb. "
"And the fabric?"
"There have been different colors. Sometimes red. Sometimes black. Sometimes blue. "
"How closely have you examined these items?"
Weston frowned. "Not too closely. I mean, I never took them out of the toilet and picked them up or anything. Except for that. " Weston pointed
to the stool on the table.
"We'll have the lab take a look at that. In the meantime, I'm going to have to take a look myself. Can you bend over the table and lift up your gown, please?"
Weston hoped it wouldn't have to come to this, but he assumed the position while Dr. Waggoner applied some chilly lubricating jelly to his hand and the point of entry.
"Just relax. You'll feel some pressure. "
It was a hell of a lot worse than pressure, and impossible to relax. Weston clenched his eyes shut and tried to concentrate on something, anything, other than the fat fingers going up the down staircase.
"You said this began three months ago. Has it been nonstop? Intermittent?"
"Only two or three days out of the month," Weston grunted. "Then it goes back to normal. "
"When during the month?"
"Usually the last week. "
"Have you . . . Wait a second. Stay still for a moment. I think I feel something. "
Which is the absolute last thing you want to hear when a doctor has his hand inside you. Weston held his breath, scrunched up his face. He didn't know which was worse, the pain or the humiliation. Blessedly, mercifully, the hand withdrew.
"What is it, Doctor?"
"Hold on. I think there's more. I'm going in again. "
Weston groaned, hating his life and everyone in it. The doctor went back in four additional times, so often that Weston was becoming used to it, a fact that disturbed him somewhat.
"I think that's the last of it. "
"The last of what?"
Weston turned around, saw the physician staring at several objects on his palm.
Dr. Waggoner said. "A coat button, part of a zipper, and sixty-three cents in change. Apparently you're not eating as healthy as you think. "
Weston blinked, as if the act would make the objects disappear. They remained.
