The good doctor

This really happened to me last year. I was going to delete it and thought to save it here, maybe use it as an inspiration for a future character...

I went to the doctor last year to check my breasts for lumps. While at it, he asked me,
“Where are you from?”
“Portugal.”
He acted as if I’d suddenly stop understanding basic english.
“Yes, but where are you from?”
“Lisbon,” I specified.
He sighed and seemed unsatisfied, which looked odd giving where he had his hands. But, as the professional, intelligent gray-haired man he was, he found a way to keep his spirits up. Shifting his hands to my other breast, the good doctor tried again,
“Where are you from?”
Now, there’s a funny effect in the power of repetition: simple questions can become more disturbing than a total stranger squeezing your breasts for rocks.
“Portugal,” I said, feeling mentally abused.
This time he looked proud of himself, leaned closer and gave another helping hand to someone obviously limited in english,
“Spain, you mean.”
The doctor’s assistant, a beautiful blond woman who had been looking at us from the bottom of the hospital’s bed, took a step closer to him and whispered,
“Portugal and Spain are two different countries.”

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