Because of my current quasi employment necessitating the appearance at least of good health, when my throat persisted in being painfully swollen, I decided I’d better nip it in the bud. I made a rare appointment to go see the doctor. Naturally as soon as I got in my car to drive there, the swelling miraculously disappeared.
I sat in the examination room waiting: I read a bit, got distracted by the massive industrial scale and began to fiddle with it a bit, shoes on, shoes off, I guiltily put them back on in case someone came in and saw me messing about with the equipment. I wondered if they would notice if I just…left. I considered it, and then sat down again and picked up my book.
The doctor came in and noticed, looking at her chart, that I hadn’t been in “since….2009” eyes raised in faux inquisitiveness, “Have I even ever seen you?” ha ha. “You must be healthy, or you’re avoiding us” ha ha. She seized the opportunity of my traitorous throat abandoning the cause to veer off point and lecture me about my lack of visits and disinclination to make appointments for the myriad tests they like to give women. “You know if you don’t get these tests, your cancer will not be detected and you could die.” My cancer? Did she just actually say my cancer?
On that uplifting note, I hopped off the table, we said good-bye and I walked to my car. Last time I was there she had told me I might have Lupus I recalled as I drove away. I want to like her, but this tendency of hers to incite panic is wasted on me and – puzzling. When my son was injured this summer, tearing his thigh open falling off a dock, he went to see this doctor for a follow up visit. He called me in agitated alarm afterwards, his leg might be infected he told me, he might have to undergo surgery, or amputation. “Whom did you see?” I asked him. When he named this very same doctor I was quite relieved. All would be well.