Today I am joining hundreds of talented writers on the topic of “visit” for Five Minute Friday, hosted at Lisa Jo Baker’s Blog.
This has been a challenging week for me, physically and emotionally. I pondered the prompt and wanted to write about something else, anything else, but here is what oozed out.
Office visit. Doctors. A necessary thing. But pretty much the most torturous experience that I willingly subject myself to. I hate everything about it! I may be alone in my loathing of doctor’s offices here, but really not my favorite thing. Wondering if you dread doctors visits too?
First, there is the waiting room. Surrounded by dozens of strangers, staring at one another, looking through meaningless magazines while formulating theories on why the others are there. I hear a phlegmy, rattling cough and immediately perform an analysis as to whether my distance away times the coughing force is equal to or greater than the distance those germs will travel. Torture.
I finally hear my name called and leap to my feet, ready to get this visit over with. That part is perhaps my favorite part of the experience, soon to be followed by the long march to judgement.
The scale. An inevitable part of every appointment. As I approach, I begin adding in my head the estimated weight of my shoes and clothes so that I can be sure to subtract that from the number I am about to see. I wore my heavy boots, so at least minus 10!
Set for 100. Step up. Wait. Tap, tap, tap. 125. The lever teeters toward the top the entire time. Tap, tap, tap. Ugh! How about we just take a look at my full-figured body type and realize there is no bloomin’ way I am going to come in under the 150 mark, despite what my lying drivers license says. Move that puppy up and save me the tap, tap, tapping that screams diet plan with every increasing number. Torture.
Feeling less than confident at this point, I continue back to the coldest room on earth, where I get the pleasure of undressing and donning a new and stylish paper wardrobe. Such a sassy look to wear a cropped paper vest with the opening in the front! Project Runway, here I come! I hop up on that paper covered table wearing my pretty paper fashion statement, crinkling with every shiver, waiting for the real fun to begin. Torture.
This particular visit was for all the glorious girlie things to be thoroughly examined. Yay me! And by the way, the poster on the ceiling of fluffy kittens is not helpful. If they really want to distract us from the discomfort of the moment, let’s see a poster of David Beckham in his undies! At least then, we wouldn’t be the only ones in the room freezing in our skivvies.
Finally, I hear the magical words, “you can get dressed now”. Start the stop watch. It’s like I’m competing for Fastest Dresser in the West, tossing on my layers in 20 seconds flat. Knowing I am almost done, I scooch back up on the crinkly paper topped table and take a deep, stress relieving breath.
The doctor enters again and shares thoughts and next steps. More tests. Additional appointments. Surgery. Not what I wanted to hear. My heart sinks in the sorrow that soon my stupid girlie parts will be gone. A sweet, understanding smile from the doctor as she sends me on my way, back through the maze of hallways that lead to the exit.
I make it to my car before the tears come. I realize there is finality and grief in this situation. I reflect on my pain and anguish. I prepare for a challenging journey ahead. I remember that I am loved. But I begin to feel less whole than I was before I entered those doors. Torture.