Uh,
yes, an appointment with a doctor - Is she female?
10
minutes til – a few more blocks – is this the building?
I
enter the brick building on Chestnut St.
My
heart a bit faster than normal – more than the brisk walk
I’m
wondering – will she be nice? patient? will she have some answers?
Will
the acronyms appended to my name break loose?
PCOS.
Insulin resistance. Pre-diabetes?
Is
it too late? can I fix this?
Has
this serpent slithered down this quickly to my place on the family tree?
Have
I been bitten too?
I’ve
seen health and strength and sight shrivel and wither,
The
center of their lives their diagnoses, Diabetes just one of them.
How
could it be me too at 23?
Maybe
it was something else.
I’m
in the waiting room
It’s
crowded, I try to find a place alone to sit and wait.
They’re
all women, mostly working class women, I think.
They’re
the faces you see most times when walking in Philadelphia
Near
University Hospital.
They
call my name, I walk in.
A
woman walks into the examining room.
“I’m
___, I’m a nurse practitioner. So you were referred here? Is that the reason
for the visit?”
She’s
terse and her face is uninterested, glancing once at me, then shifting through
papers.
I thought they said I’d be seeing a
gynecologist. Maybe she’ll come in later.
“I came to follow up on some test results I got
a few weeks ago. I was told I should get a pelvic ultrasound to see if I could
have PCOS.”
“We
don’t do that here.”
Her
eyebrows knit together, now wearing confusion from a dumb request.
Something
I said didn’t make sense.
“Do
I need to get a referral for this?”
A
short sigh and a she snaps up to go to a cupboard.
“You
can go for imaging and they send it here.”
She’s
speaking slower now – her eyes aren’t looking in my direction
But
she’s looking far down at me.
I
hope she’s almost done and the doctor comes in.
She
has to be more pleasant.
There’s
a gown in her hand.
She
tells me to put it on and she’ll be back.
So
can they do the ultrasound here? Is that what’s happening next?
Is
she coming back with the doctor this time?
I
do what she says
Goosebumps
are collecting on my arms as my questions in my head.
What
are they going to do next, is it going to tell me anything new? Will the news
bring relief?
I’ve
been worried for a while now.
I
seldom cry and I was a wreck when I was telling my dad after my first
appointment.
I
had heard my doctor’s words and I was helpless.
Something
could already be wrong with me, and I couldn’t change it, I couldn’t control
it.
I
could just react
and
did pre-diabetic mean I could have Diabetes in a couple years?
And
everyone in my family with diabetes was in my mind at once – she was losing her
vision, she had to pinch her fingers everyday, he looked so frail, he was so
young, in his 30s….on and on.
She
returns with an assistant but there is no doctor.
Can
I ask? I’m uneasy. No one is saying anything. They’re setting up a small tray
with items they’re pulling from drawers.
It’s
quiet.
Just
routine shuffling.
Will
they tell me what’s going to happen next?
They
adjust the back of the examining table.
Am
I getting the ultrasound here? I thought they didn’t do that here?
That’s
why I’m here.
Did
she hear me before?
“Slide
down.”
I
obey.
But
is this what I came for? Is this the procedure I need? When is the doctor
coming in?
I
just obey. I lean back, I slide down.
But
their silence.
They’re
seeing past me.
Do
they see me in this room?
When
will someone speak with me, tell me “what” and “why”.
The
silence and their distance – it’s heavy on me.
I
feel myself growing smaller and more frightened.
I
told them why I was here.
I
just hear clicking and rustling of small tools.
I
don’t think I need to do this again – and I don’t think she’ll be as patient as
Dr. Velarde.
“This is usually painful for me.” I squeak out,
very small.
“It’s
quick.”
She
continues.
I
feel her hand on my thigh.
My
fingers curl over the sides of the table,
She
isn’t listening as I ask if she could stop.
As
I ask if she could try something else.
My
stomach is tensing, the room is a little dimmer to me.
She
shakes my knees – to relax?
I
feel my stomach churning, moving up, crawling further up.
No
one is speaking to me.
No
one is listening.
I
am deaf and mute and I stop asking for help, stop explaining.
Focusing
on trying not to throw up here – worrying about not wanting to interfere, to
make a mess for them.
Wanting
to leave.
“You’re
still bleeding.”
She
is loud in this silence, she is bothered.
I’ve
annoyed her, there is blame and impatient in her voice.
I’ve
inconvenienced her – I feel that her stomach might be turning too for a
different reason.
She
has made me one of the many poor, ignorant, colored women she needs to see
today.
That
she needs to have sit and slide quick enough for her
That
don’t need to speak
That
makes things take longer,
and
she needs to get through these people and leave.
If
they stopped asking stupid questions, just did what I told them and left
They’ll
get their report and result summary in the mail,
That’s
not what I do.
So
I apologize for still bleeding.
She
didn’t tell me not to see her if I was.
She
didn’t tell me I would not be seeing the doctor.
She
didn’t tell me why she was examining me, when I needed an ultrasound.
She
didn’t speak to me at all.
And
I didn’t speak loud enough.
I
didn’t tell her I understood and her tone wasn’t necessary.
I
didn’t speak loud enough or leave after
Silence
Silence
silence.
I
just obeyed.
And
I was invisible.
For
the first time, invisible.
Maybe
my face was just another one – one she had seen too many times.
Seen
too many times to look at again.
I
left feeling sore.
I
left not knowing why all that had happened.
I
left realizing there is so much
you
don’t know
or
understand
or
get answers to
sometimes
as a patient.
Because
the white coats your mind and
you
forget what it feels like to not know the jargon
the
acronyms
the
scary words that get your mind racing, imagining so many life-altering
scenarios
the
worry of the unknown
the
worry while you’re waiting for results
the
list of maybe-diagnoses that feels like Russian roulette.
Maybe
you don’t forget the patient is physically there because they are sitting in
front of you and you are in a room with them,
handing
them the rites of a medical interaction
But
how the patient is interpreting this scenario,
How
these words are affecting their reality as soon as they’re uttered,
Sometimes
that’s forgotten.
I
walked back, those 10 blocks.
Feeling
every step this time, feeling ashamed for being so silent.
And
with those same acronyms to my name.
Weighing
heavily,
like
my hands in my pockets,
Waiting
still for answers.
