It's the day of my results, and I am running a few minutes behind schedule. I thought I had enough time to take a quick shower to be squeaky clean for the doctor before heading out the door. Turns out, I underestimated the amount of time I had.
By the time I make it there, I am only five minutes late. Sadly, I am also a tower of sweat since I ran up eight flights of stairs because the fucking elevator was taking a lifetime to reach the main floor. If I was 15 minutes late, I would've been charged a fee and had to reschedule my appointment for God knows when. After signing in, I learn the doctor is running behind schedule, too. Thank God, that means I didn't miss my appointment.
Minutes pass and I see a stream of other patients walk past me and into his office. After 3/4 of an hour, I start to lose it. The magazine I brought with me is read, cover to cover; including ads. I'm getting anxious, like during exams. The feeling is similar to that of butterflies in your stomach who are suffering from a case of the pukes and the shits.
At the one-hour mark, my name is called and I'm directed into his office. I'm told to strip, from the waist down, and put on a hospital gown. I do as I'm told and sit on the examining table. About 10 minutes pass and I'm getting antsy, again. The butterflies are back and they're feeling really sick.Great, now I have to go to the bathroom,
I think. Shit. I can't go because I am not going out there with this on. But, I have to go to bathroom. Ugh. Why doesn't he hurry up? I have to go…
And when I have to go, I let go and begin to flap my hospital gown to try and dissipate the smell. I resemble a discombulating bat, flying around the office, the cotton of the gown flapping every which way.I hope he doesn’t smell anything when he comes in. The last thing I need is for him to think I’m not clean. Where the hell is he? Fuck. I really want to go NOW! But, if I go, then I won't be 'clean' for him anymore. Fuck. Where the fuck is he?!
Before I break my way through the door in a comical fashion, barefoot and with my hand holding the back of the hospital gown, the doctor comes in.
He asks me to sit down while he goes through my records. As he flips through the pages, he tells me everything is fine. I am clean and clear. No cancer. I’m relieved, but not relieved enough to exhale.
While he’s poking around, I start to think whether I’m clean enough, or if he thinks I’m a dirty boy because I had to let one go when I was waiting for him. Being a doctor, he probably goes through much worse. Maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t have any dairy for the past 24 hours.
By the time he’s finished examining me, he tells me I can go. I ask him if I have to make a follow-up appointment. He says no. There’s nothing to worry about. I thank him, as graciously as a man can who is 90 per cent naked, holding the back of a hospital gown with one of his hands.
I clean myself up, throw on my clothes, fold the hospital gown on the table, and walk out.
When I pass the waiting room, I give it one last look, hoping I won’t have to return. And if I ever do, I have to make sure I won’t be sitting in it, becoming a nervous wreck and hoping I won’t have to go to the bathroom the moment I close the door of the doctor's office.