In the quiet, wood-panneled waiting rooms of a small suburban town, a medical mystery was unfolding that would eventually become the talk of the local community. It began on a Tuesday morning when Mrs. Higgins, a formidable woman of eighty years with a sharp wit and an even sharper tongue, decided she could no longer ignore a certain persistent irritation. Mrs. Higgins was a woman of traditional values and iron-clad principles, known throughout the county as a paragon of virtue. She had lived a life of quiet dignity, never having married and, by her own proud admission, having remained a “maiden lady” in every sense of the term. However, for the past several days, she had been plagued by an insufferable, maddening itch in her nether regions that no amount of talcum powder or specialized soaps could soothe.
Her first stop was the office of Dr. Miller, a man who had been her primary care physician for three decades. He was a sensible man, accustomed to the standard ailments of the elderly, from arthritis to high blood pressure. After listening to Mrs. Higgins describe her symptoms with as much decorum as she could muster, Dr. Miller performed a brief assessment. He adjusted his spectacles, looked at the chart, and then back at his patient with a sympathetic but clinical expression. “Mrs. Higgins,” he began carefully, “it appears that you have a case of pediculosis pubis. In layman’s terms, you have the crabs.”
Mrs. Higgins sat bolt upright, her handbag clutched to her chest like a shield. Her eyes flashed with indignation. “The crabs? Doctor, don’t be ridiculous. That is an affliction of the youth and the wayward. I am an eighty-year-old virgin. I have never so much as shared a milkshake with a gentleman, let alone engaged in the type of behavior that would invite such a guest into my home. It is simply impossible. Good day to you, sir.” With a huff that seemed to vibrate the very walls of the clinic, she gathered her coat and marched out, leaving Dr. Miller staring at the closed door in silent bewilderment.
Stubbornness was one of Mrs. Higgins’ most prominent traits, but the itch was even more persistent than her pride. Two days later, the irritation had become so distracting that she found herself sitting in the office of a second physician, a younger man named Dr. Stevens who was known for his modern approach to medicine. She explained her predicament once more, omitting her previous consultation but emphasizing her lifelong commitment to chastity. Dr. Stevens was thorough, but his conclusion was identical to the first. “Ma’am,” he said, trying to be gentle, “the symptoms are quite classic. It really does look like a parasitic infestation. Most likely, you’ve picked up the crabs, perhaps from a contaminated towel or a public restroom.”
“I do not use public restrooms, young man, and my towels are bleached within an inch of their lives!” she declared, rising from her chair with the grace of a Victorian queen. “I have told you already, I am an eighty-year-old virgin. The math simply does not add up. You doctors are all the same—too quick to judge and too slow to think.” She exited the building with her head held high, though the frantic tapping of her foot in the elevator betrayed the physical misery she was enduring.
By the time the weekend rolled around, Mrs. Higgins was at her wits’ end. She was losing sleep, her temper was frayed, and she felt as though she were losing her mind. In a last-ditch effort to find relief, she sought out a third opinion. This time, she chose Dr. Abernathy, a specialist renowned for his diagnostic brilliance and his ability to solve the most eccentric medical puzzles. She entered his office and, before he could even greet her, she laid out the terms of her visit.
“Now listen here, Doctor,” she started, pointing a gloved finger at him. “I have a problem, and it is a very specific, very itchy problem. I have already seen two other fools this week who insisted on telling me that I have the crabs. I am here to tell you that such a diagnosis is a physical and moral impossibility. I am an eighty-year-old virgin. I have guarded my virtue for eight decades with the tenacity of a bulldog. It cannot be the crabs. If you tell me it is the crabs, I shall walk out that door and never return.”
Dr. Abernathy, a man who had seen almost everything in his forty years of practice, smiled kindly and gestured toward the examination table. “Mrs. Higgins, I respect your history and your convictions. Medicine is not just about what is common; it is about what is true. Let’s not rely on guesswork or the opinions of others. Jump up on the table, and let’s have a look for ourselves. We shall get to the bottom of this once and for all.”
Mrs. Higgins, feeling a glimmer of hope that she had finally found a man of reason, complied. She allowed the examination to proceed in silence, staring up at the ceiling tiles and praying for a miracle. Dr. Abernathy was meticulous. He used a high-powered magnifying lamp and took his time, moving with the focus of a jeweler inspecting a rare gem. He hummed softly to himself, adjusted the light, and then moved back, pulling his gloves off with a rhythmic snap.
He walked over to the sink, washed his hands, and turned to face Mrs. Higgins, who was sitting up and smoothing her skirt with trembling hands. “Well?” she demanded. “Tell me the truth, Doctor. Is it… is it what they said?”
Dr. Abernathy shook his head, a look of profound scholarly realization on his face. “Ma’am, I am pleased to tell you that your right. Your virtue remains unquestioned, and those other doctors were indeed mistaken. You do not have the crabs. Not in the slightest.”
Mrs. Higgins let out a long, shuddering breath of relief. “Oh, thank heaven! I knew it. I knew my lifestyle would be my vindication. But then, Doctor, what on earth is causing this infernal itching? If it isn’t the crabs, then what could it possibly be?”
The doctor leaned in, his expression perfectly deadpan, though there was a mischievous glint in his eye. “Well, Mrs. Higgins, it’s a rare condition, but quite logical given the circumstances. You see, after eighty years of being an untouched virgin, the fruit has become so incredibly old and the cherry is so well-preserved that it’s finally turned. Ma’am, you don’t have the crabs—you have fruit flies.”
For a moment, the room was silent. Mrs. Higgins stared at Dr. Abernathy, her mouth slightly agape as the absurdity of the statement registered in her mind. Then, slowly, a small chuckle escaped her lips, followed by a full-bellied laugh that echoed through the clinical halls. She had spent a lifetime guarding her “fruit,” only to be told it had finally reached its expiration date in the most literal, ridiculous sense possible. She left the office that day with a prescription for a specialized cream and a story that she would eventually share with her bridge club, proving that even at eighty, life—and medicine—can still provide a few hilarious surprises.
