Paging Dr. Stupid

I didn’t always think I’d be a comedian. There was a time when I was fairly certain I’d be a doctor. Before you say, “Uh, I’ve been reading this book and I’ve seen your stand-up, and if there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s that you don’t come from doctor stock,” I’ll tell you to stop being so rude for a second because, actually, I do.

Both of my great-grandfathers on my father’s side were doctors. My great-uncle on the same side was an ophthalmologist. My mother’s father was a revered obstetrician; his brother was a surgeon. My dad’s brother, Joe, was a world-renowned urologist; his daughter, Leal, is an anesthesiologist. My cousin Suzanna is an infectious disease specialist, and just for good measure, cousin Marisol is a veterinarian. You get the idea. There are a lot of smart people in my family on both sides.

I am not one of them.

The evidence was there from an early age. For example, in fifth grade we were given an eight-week-long science project assignment. I went home and told my parents. “I have to do a science project over the next eight weeks. Not sure what to do.”

My dad, also not a doctor, jumped right in.

“Why don’t you take pictures of the sun at the same time once a week. You’d show how the earth tilts with your pictures. That’d be neat.”

“Uh… okay.”

We took our first picture that day, the next week another one. Soon, six weeks had gone by and our science teacher started checking in with the class.

“How’s everyone’s projects coming along? You’ll be presenting them in two weeks.”

Kids started chiming in about ideas that were, frankly, wild to my ears.

“My sea level rise projections are where I’d thought they’d be.”

“I’m a little surprised at the concentration of volcanic ash that I’m seeing.”

What the fuck?!

Sea levels? Ash? I’m taking pictures of the sun! I played it cool because I was too embarrassed to admit I was out of my element, but I was also stunned. How were these kids coming up with this stuff? How were they even discussing these things in such scientific detail? Was I really just dumb and not aware of it?

The teacher gave us each a large piece of cardboard with a fold on either side, like a giant pamphlet, to use for our presentation. The pamphlet was displayed upright so everyone could see the details of your project. You basically used the whole canvas to tell the story of your hypothesis, the experiment, and the outcome.

The project was due on the Monday directly following the Super Bowl. Earlier in the week my mother had the photos developed, and I began working on placing them on the cardboard during the game. Later, I learned this was a big mistake. The other kids had actually been spending weeks and significant time getting theirs ready. I don’t remember exactly what my hypothesis was, but it was probably something like, “All my pictures of the sun will prove that Earth is really spinning,” or something worse. I do remember what my big piece of cardboard looked like. Like medical school was not in my future. I have terrible handwriting, and this cardboard was filled with it. The photos of the sun? They were taped and glued all over the board with no thought for symmetry or design. My conclusion? The Earth did indeed move.

I knew that it looked like shit, but I must have thought that other kids would have shitty presentations too. Sure, they were discussing more advanced theories, but why would they be artistically gifted in how they presented those ideas? Well, they were. Not one looked like mine. Not. One.

The school gym had been converted into a science fair auditorium. Banners hung with depictions of the moon or chemistry elements. It was very clear, today was about science. When I put my poster board on the display table, I looked over at another kid’s and immediately folded mine closed. What was happening? They were all written in beautiful fonts. They used multiple colors and typed up their hypotheses. Some even had interactive props. Props! The volcano kid? He had a little volcano in the middle of his display that was oozing out fake lava. Another kid had wildlife sounds playing from a speaker as you looked at her project about the Amazon River. It looked like it could be in the Smithsonian.

No one said anything to me about my project, but they didn’t need to. It was all in their eyes. The teachers, the other kids, their parents. I saw the way they looked at my project with the type of pitying glance usually reserved for when you see a homeless person sitting outside a Michelin-starred restaurant. My head hung low. I was mortified at how bad my presentation was, but the worst was still to come.

After all the projects were reviewed and everyone was able to take a good, long look at my terrible work, the teachers presented the students with ribbons. The ribbons were gold, red, or blue. Each one had “1st,” “2nd,” or “3rd” printed on it. It took me a minute to realize they weren’t awarding a ribbon to only the first-, second-, and third-place projects, but that all the students were getting a ribbon, meaning there were multiple ribbons awarded for each place. I took a deep, relieved breath.

I guess third place isn’t so bad.

I walked around the gym taking in all the far better projects. I saw all the proud faces and all the red, blue, and gold ribbons, but when I returned to my poster board I saw something I didn’t see anywhere else: a green ribbon. Upon closer inspection I could see that this was not first, second, or third place. This one said something else: “Participation Award.” And yes, it was the only one given out.

It was absolutely humiliating.

Luckily, I was dumb enough that not even this made me realize how dumb I was. I kept the dream of being a doctor going.

Two years later, I overheard that a heart attack was actually something called coronary thrombosis. This made me very excited. I’m good with memorization, and I do especially well with words and phrases that others struggle to say. As a seventh grader, I beamed. What an excellent term. I told my teacher I wanted to be a cardiothoracic surgeon. I thought that sounded really smart. I overenunciated it in an extra effort to impress.

“Car-dee-oh-thur-ass-ick” surgeon.

His eyes popped.

Oh my. That’s excellent that you know what you want to do. Such an impressive field.”

His approval was all I needed. I was ready to announce I’d be a doctor again. When other kids would talk about the jobs they wanted to pursue I’d nod, considering their clearly inferior choices, before I revealed my impressive career plan, saying “cardiothoracic surgeon” with just enough of a hint of arrogance to suggest I might be able to do it. Little did they know I wouldn’t even pass basic math classes, but that was yet to come.

During my freshman year of high school I pitched my history teacher on a topic for my term paper: the history of surgery. I’d really wow them there. I’d not only blow people’s minds by exploring such a fascinating topic, but I’d also learn so much about my future profession: a win-win.

My idea was to research when the first documented surgeries took place and tell the story of how they evolved, ending with today’s modern medical world. My uncle Joe got me the hookup. I’d tail surgeons for an entire day at the Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville to see what the latest procedures were. I couldn’t wait to gather all this information so I could present my paper and solidify my pathway, my birthright, to becoming Dr. Thomas Segura, MD.

Surgery starts early. This would be my first red flag for this career. They were performing their first procedure at 7:15 a.m. I feel like sitting up straight at 7:15 a.m. is a challenge. These guys are performing surgery. A resident told me I’d be shadowing thirteen different procedures that day. The surgeon pulled me and my father aside before the first one. My dad had accompanied me, as he was curious about all of this too. We were about to enter the operating room.

“The lady in there is awake, just so you know. She’s numb below her waist, but she’s not asleep, so just don’t say anything about, you know…”

My father, who at the time was in corporate finance, said without hesitation:

“Her pussy.”

JEEZUS, dude! I looked at him in disbelief.

Did my dad really just say that?

But much to my surprise, the surgeon nodded.

“Exactly. It’s not going to… look good.”

He was not lying.

The poor lady was eighty-four, and her legs were wide open. My father and I, who she must have assumed were medical staff since we wore scrubs, masks, and even gloves, hovered over the surgeon’s shoulder. He sat, well, as close to her vagina as you’d need to to do what he was about to do. It should be noted that this was the first vagina I ever saw in person, and it made me think, Maybe these aren’t for me.

The doctor used a device to pry her vaginal walls open, he got a bunch of lube on his hands, and then he went in, with his whole hand. My dad and I looked at each other. This was awfully awkward father–son bonding. He stared at me for a bit, and I knew what he was thinking. He wanted to say something awful about her pussy. My look communicated something back to him: “I know what you want to say, Dad. Don’t.”

The doctor used the device to spread her even further open, and then his hand pulled something toward her opening. It was a softball-size cyst that was still attached to her.

“Grab the camera. This is incredible.”

One of his staff took off and returned quickly with a large Canon camera. He was thrilled. “This has to be a record-size vaginal cyst.”

They snapped pictures and then they ruptured the cyst. An endless flow of pus streamed out of it. The medical staff let her know what they were doing and how remarkable it was.

“This won’t be bothering you anymore, ma’am.”

Let me remind you that I’m witnessing all of this as a fourteen-year-old kid. It was pretty advanced stuff. As we left the operating room, I took a deep breath and turned to my dad.

“We have twelve more of these today.” My dad nodded and then leaned in to my ear.

“Can you imagine what it smells like between her legs?”

Very cool comment, Dad!

We spent the next nine hours in and out of every possible procedure on gallbladders, urethras, testicles, kidneys, and at least one more older vagina. I wasn’t yet totally aware that I didn’t have the brain to do what these people were doing, but I did leave there with certainty that I didn’t want to do this for a living. This would be the day that I told myself and my father.

“I don’t want to be a doctor.”

“That’s okay, buddy.” His support meant a lot. I know that part of me wanted to do it to make him proud.

“It’s important to try things, and you’ll figure out what you want to do over time.”

But a new path was already clear to me. I wanted to play football in the NFL.

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