I went to the Dr. today. I was dreading it, but I'm glad I went. Below is an excerpt from my encounter. I mixed it with fictional thoughts of what I imagined it would be like and for some reason compared it to the Great Depression. It's dark and depressing, I know. But, for some reason it's what came out when I started writing...I expected the worst. History had taught me to do so. Visions of the painful existence before Roosevelt's deal penetrated my head with the urgency of a road signs' yellow warning. People were everywhere. Most of them alive, some dead, some wishing they were dead. The stench of sickness was overwhelming such that I feared contraction just from inhalation of the foulness. The line stretched and turned and curved like a confused river, unsure of its final destination. Hopelessness made the atmosphere dense and robbed the air of its oxygen. They knew there was no end in site, at least not any time soon. Despair coursed through their veins fighting the blood cells for vacant space in the heart. Nowhere on earth were dirtier people found and the notion of sanitation remained undiscovered like a lost treasure in the deepest ocean. Time didn't matter. It only served as a painful memory of the length of their existence and therefore remained uncounted.
The first indication of life came from her slow walk to the front of the room. Each stride laborious and planned as she stepped and weaved her way past neighbors, schoolmates and impending cadavers. Her face was long and sad, much too sad for a girl of her age. The dress she wore an indefinable color, though a blue and white patch fought its way out from under the soot colored gray. She had worn it for months and it was the only article of clothing not sold, or traded for food. Hatred lurked in her heart for that dress. It once was her favorite and at times her best friend. But, circumstances dictated that she could no longer escape it. Despite her gratitude for its attempt to protect her from the cold, it trapped her. Like the cage of a prison were the bars of the plaid pattern.
She carried her message like a courier with a fragile package to the counter where the lady in the sweater sat. Without hesitation she spoke in a voice that penetrated the sounds of discontent. An inquiry as to the status of her brother. He made it through. The blood in his cough had allowed him to obtain a ticket through the door of the impenetrable wall. The lady forced a smile and with grimaced regret informed the girl that she did not know of his condition. The doctors were treating him, but it was impossible to keep up with the charts of this many patients. Only slightly comforted by this response, the girl returned to her post. It would be another long day of waiting, hoping, wishing.
I walked up to the door. Cold, steel, thick as a phonebook. My eyes were prepared for the devastation in store. Hacking coughs and the moans of the sick would soon overtake me. I hesitated because I hated this sort of thing. I know, its for the better. But, why do they have to exist. Big metal boxes full of pain and grief. The inevitable cure waited behind the Pull sign, but my body tensed at the thought of entering. I did. Eyes barely open I only focused on what was before me. A small round lady in a purple suit of cotton fabric covered on top by an over sized sweater.
Her smile was comforting, but her question confusing. I needed to see a doctor. Why else would I be there? She couldn't see the last few days of discomfort that I thought must have been written on my forehead. I responded politely though I knew a mountain of paperwork would surely ensue. That's just the beginning. That's how it all starts. It was coming. She would gently hand me a clipboard of questions regarding data dating back to my third grade chicken pox. But, she did not. I was elated. A simple address and signature and I would be free to determine my remaining fate.
I hadn't looked yet. It's like cutting your finger. At first you don't want to know the damage, but then the curiosity overwhelms you. I turned. No one. As far as I could see, empty chairs. I expected the music from an old western ghost town to play as a tumbleweed passed at my feet. Had I missed the second coming? Something was wrong. Where were the throngs of ailing people, vomit prone and leaning on each other for comfort? I stood in a solitary existence, alone and bewildered.
Within minutes I was called by another purple cotton covered lady. She wore glasses and held the stereotypical chart in her left hand. I wanted to hug her, but I refrained for fear I would lose my chance at the inside before it even began. Question after question, I answered like an excited criminal. Could it be that my release was soon on the horizon? It was too early to say, but I was ushered to my cell with haste.
As I sat in the oddly shaped chair, I faced my reality. I'm terrible in these situations. I don't know why. Since birth my stomach has maintained the strength of a feather in a rain storm. The medical world a trigger for light headed strangeness that surfaces each time I engage it. My previous visits had been conquered by a hand smaller but stronger than mine, a hand that has since retracted itself. Doing, meant doing alone, and I was unsure of my ability to do so.
Triumph came quickly and the sting was unsubstantial. Unconcerned with the pain, I knew walking was the issue. My fear was irrelevant. The desire to prove myself overcame the thought of lying on the floor and I left with my pride in tact. The only chore now was to pause for its remedy. With enough antibiotics to seemingly cure an African epidemic, I knew the worst was over. Surely the buildup would be worth the payoff. Now I just wait to find out.
