In Utah, waking up in January with a scratchy throat is almost a custom. You shovel snow one day; next, chill in a clinic waiting room. Coffee in hand, I slink in half-awake, half-hopeful, trying to remember if I carried my insurance card. The receptionist searches using my name. Turning over the forms, she jokes about the morning cold. I rapidly review the questions, ignore the ones I cannot answer, mark a date here, and scribble a yes there. My writing is between that of doctor and child. Article source!
Different patients move at different speeds. One of someone’s babies is teething and not hesitant about telling others. The TV in the corner alternatively shows news and an animated program evoking memories of after-school munchies. Names are announced one at a time, just as in bingo; each winner returns for round two of waiting.
Nurse Betty approaches with a copybook. She says, “We all shrink eventually.” She looks at my height, waves me back, softly weights me. Blood pressure cuff starts, and the conversation stays friendly. She seems not worried when I ask, “Was it high?” She just laughs and says, “Could be worse—mine spikes every time I see my mother-in-law.”
The exam room smells vaguely of disinfectant and someone’s dinner from one hour ago. I try not to answer my phone too often. Doctor Ellis comes in, shakes my hand, and instead of fixating on a screen actually locks eyes. She digs more about my throat than about my job, my stress level, my grandmother’s cinnamon buns—I might have overshared. She listens, quite as one would wish. She taps her pen, considers a prescription drawn with a smiley face.
Looking over the checkout is not scary. They clear what insurance covers, spell the charges, and show me a flu vaccination line down the hall. Grandma sitting next to me grabs a butterscotch from her purse’s bottom. I go feeling lighter, prescription in one hand, advise in the other, and a fresh story to tell next time I’m snowed in coughing.