Other Things To Worry About When Going to the Doctors

Respect the Pen Cup, The Scale is Wrong

I’ve had the big C so doctor’s appointments can be anxiety ridden. Instead, I focus on smaller items to worry about.

The elevator doors open.

Am I on the correct floor? Yes. 9^th.

I pause at the sign that says, “Please wait to be called.”

The receptionist waves me over.

“Name and birthdate?”

I glance at the five other patients in the waiting area. They are all visibly older than me. If they’re younger, then they’re eating too many pancakes.

I mumble my birthdate.

“Excuse me?” says reception gal.

I lean in but she doesn’t lean forward. Her tummy rests on the desk. I start dreaming about pancakes.

I clear my throat and raise my voice, hoping this new decibel will vibrate through my mask and over the Covid compliant plexiglass.

The other patient’s glance at me. They heard. They know when I was born.

“So much for HIPPA,” I say to the receptionist. I don’t wink because with a mask she will think something is in my eye.

“Excuse me?” says reception gal.

I raise my voice again, “So much for HIPPA.”

“Yes, please sign the HIPPA form.”

She didn’t understand me or the irony.

As I take a seat, I mumble the explanation to myself. “I shouted my birthdate, but everything here is supposed to be private. Get it?”

The five other patients in the waiting room turn away from me as though I’m not wearing a mask.

Oh. I was talking to myself. This is Seattle. Only people in tents talk to themselves. I should have taken advantage of this quirk back when I was living in NYC. Everything was “normal” in NY. Being naked in Central Park, guys peeing in an alley, guys jerking off in an alley, Rolex watches sold in an alley, the homeless guy that threw his empty whiskey bottle at my head— not in an alley. (I ducked.) I once saw Sting on Columbus Avenue. I was admiring his leather jacket until I realized, “Oh, that’s Sting.” He’s more interesting in person than in concert. But he was just an Englishman in New York.

Reception person calls me back and hands me a clipboard.

“Please fill this out.”

I’m stumped. There’s only one pen cup. There are usually two. One that’s for the clean pens and the other cup has a sign that reads, “Dirty,” in bold red.

I inquire about the second cup. “Where’s the cup of death?”

“Excuse me?”

I make the “Check please” hand signal—the official gesture in every restaurant around the world but can also be a silent request for a writing utensil.

“Pens are in the cup.”

She no longer remembers the death cup.

I remember it well. I would shrink back at the sight of it. I knew that if I dunked my hand in it I’d lose a finger. There would be one or two scary, covid infected pens, lurking. They looked sad. Only used once. Their ink probably dried up. Patient beware.

Toward the end of Covid, when the dirty cup lost its mystique, I was tempted to use an infectious pen just to see what would happen. I can be daring that way. I’m willing to try everything once: play Wordle, kill a spider instead of asking hubby to do it, read a poem...

I didn’t though. I knew an alarm would blare throughout the 9^th floor. The receptionist would leap over the plexiglass like it was a roadblock at a Sting concert. She’d spray me with a large bottle of sanitizer, and I would be instantly surrounded by people in hazmat suits.

Hazmat 1 would say, “Very carefully, hand over the pen.”

“I just wanted to fill out the paperwork,” I’d plead, then drop it by accident.

“Where did it go?! Clear the room! Evacuate!”

Beware the dirty pen cup.

That was just last month. I guess we’re all using the same pens again.

I carefully remove one as though I’m diffusing a bomb. I didn’t blow up.

I sit down and begin the arduous process of filling out the pamphlet of pages.

One elderly patient who checked in after me says, “What are ya here for?”

I look up. Was he talking to me? He’s making eye contact so that means, yes. I keep it short. I’m anxious I won’t finish this paperwork before I’m called in.

“Second opinion. I have a list of food intolerances the length of my intestines,” I say. I return to the booklet on my lap, scribbling in my family history. After all, the doctor must read every word of this document before he sees me, yes?

“Colon cancer,” old guy says.

Jeez. I didn’t even ask him why he’s here. Screw the novella, this guy is sick and needs a chat.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Stage four. Not looking good.”

I’m speechless and self-conscious of what my eyes might tell him. I hope they’re slightly droopy and glossed over as though I’m about to cry for him. I’m suddenly angry that I have Dry Eye.

“It’s okay,” he says, “I’ve had a good life.”

I didn’t quite hear him through the mask, “A good laugh?”

“Life. Life.”

I look back and forth to the old guy and my looming paperwork.

The door that leads to the treatment rooms opens. “Stifle?”

“Yes. Me.” (I don’t bother correcting people anymore when they mispronounce my last name.)

I smile at the elderly man even though he can’t see me smile. “Be well,” I blurt out, but then I sigh at my stupid comment. Be well? Really?

“Hello, I’m Adrian, I’m Dr. P’s nurse.” (Dr. P has a long last name so everyone calls her Dr. P.)

Before the door closes behind me, I glimpse a final look at colon cancer man. I can’t help but tell Adrian, “That man has stage four colon cancer—”

Adrian stops, mid step. “You do know we’re HIPPA compliant.”

“Of course, but—"

“Paperwork?”

I cower and say, “I didn’t get past my favorite pharmacy.”

“It’s probably on the computer anyway.”

She tosses aside the clip board. I want to say, “What’s the point of these printed forms?” I’m glad she can’t see my scowl through the mask.

“Let’s get your weight.”

I start to remove my shoes.

“Oh, you can leave those on.”

“But it won’t be accurate. These are motorcycle boots. They weigh like ten pounds.”

“No, they don’t.”

How does she know? I look around the office for a poster of a clothing and shoe weight chart. Leather jacket—3 lbs., sneakers—2 lbs., Doc Martens—10 lbs. There isn’t one.

I stand on the electronic scale. Sure enough I’m ten pounds heavier at the doctor’s office.

“I was ten pounds lighter this morning—with wet hair” I say.

“Probably not. Home scales are different.”

Okay. Now, I’m weight-device-offended. She just insulted my bathroom scale.

“I purposely bought a decent scale from Bed Bath and Beyond.”

The nurse eyes me, “They might file chapter 11.”

“The scale company or Bed Bath and Beyond?”

“B-B and B,” the nurse spews as though she’s moonlighting as a stockbroker.

“That doesn’t mean they sell inaccurate weight systems.”

She audibly smirks with a Ch sound as though she’s revving up phlegm in her throat.

I follow Adrian into a treatment room.

“Dr. P will be right in.”

“I don’t need a gown?” I say.

“Nope.”

“That’s a relief. The second on put on that ugly thing I’ve got to pee which means I need to go down the hallway with my backside exposed. But while I’m getting undressed, I never know where to put my underwear. Do I roll them up? Do I hide them inside the fold of my sweatpants? I’m just glad I don’t get my period anymore. I used to tuck the string back inside the pink canoe or if I was wearing a pad I --”

Adrian shifts her weight.

“Too much information?”

She makes the sound again, clearing her phlegmy pharynx. Maybe she’s bored and annoyed. I can’t tell if it’s me, her job, or the mask. Could be all the aforementioned.

I’m alone in the treatment room. By the time the doctor knocks and enters I’ve gone through my email, come up with five story ideas and FaceTimed with my mother. I didn’t want to call the credit card company about a charge because I might be put on hold for an hour and once the doctor enters, that’s it. The unspoken rules take over:

• On the phone? Hang up. Immediately. (Even if you’re talking to the President of the United States, or Sting.)

• Patient must salute the doctor.

When Dr. P tells me my tests are normal, I’m upset. (And relieved, but upset.) I want to know why I develop food intolerances so easily. Why couldn’t she just say, “Drink more green tea and all will be well?” Instead, she orders more tests.

Let’s Talk:

1.     Do you get anxious at the doctors?

2.     Did you ever use a dirty pen and live to talk about it?

3.     Did you complete the paperwork?