Hospitalized.

My sister made an obscenely delicious dinner consisting of spaghetti, Alfredo, and chicken. It's positively inspirational. And now that I am in a good place, with good food, good music, and no worries about tomorrow, I'll tell you my tale.

I hate the doctor's office. It's the wallpaper that matches the floor and the curtains. It's the confusing hallways that all look the same. It's the long waits. It's the paperwork. It's the child that escapes from my grownup body and the need for my mother to be there. It's the cold temperatures. It's the screaming kids. It's the coughing. It's the impersonal doctors. It's the popsicle stick that chokes me every time. It's the scale. It's the fear that maybe I'm sick. It's the possibility of bad news. I hate the doctor's office.

That doesn't stop me from going. My love for leaving outweighs my hate for the doctor's office and staying. My school requires a physical to be done.

The Great Mouse Detective is playing and all eyes are glued to the screen; young and old alike. My appointment is at 8:40am and I don't hear my name until 9:ooam. "Don't say it...!" Yells Ratigan, his body turning inward. "Sewer Rat!" Basil declares.

Height: 5'4 1/4"
Weight: ***
Blood Pressure: 100/58
Eyes: 20/13 (Susan, my nurse, who I would've preferred to be my doctor as opposed to that other woman, remarked with surprise, "Wow. You have, like, Super Woman vision." As if I didn't already understand, "You have really good eye sight.")

Even the paper thin gowns match the walls. A small curtain is supposed to make me feel comfortable. It doesn't. The security camera at my back exposes me to anyone with the ability to see. I turn my back to the camera and find the quickest route to the least amount of exposure. It couldn't have been more than 4 degrees in that room. I also received a bed sheet for "extra privacy". The only extra privacy I would like to use that sheet for would be to cover up that security camera.

A thin, repulsively colored cloth separates me from the rest of the room. My flip flops remain on my feet. I sit on the sheet of paper, which I always managed to rip when I was younger, and my feet dangle an inch above the stepping stool. I hate the doctor's office. As I sit, I wonder how many other woman have worn this same gown. A pregnant woman. Someone with cancer. A child. A healthy college student. Someone suffering from pain. Did they cry? Were they nervous? Was it normal? Were they wondering about all those other woman who would wear that same gown?

There's a knock on the door, "We might have made a mistake. You might be able to get dressed." I love hearing the word "mistake" when I'm only covered in a sheet with arms. Several minutes later this was confirmed by the doctor. This took up a great deal of the morning before we could move on. I dress, fold the extra privacy sheet and manage to fold the gown (which is very similar to folding a fitted sheet). Evidentally, there was no need for me to get naked. At this point it was almost snowing in there and I had to use the route of least exposure in rewind.

Vaccinations was the next topic after the doctor asked me about multivitamins, drug use and allergies. There was a lot of waiting involved; mostly waiting, actually. After I waited, saw the nurse, waited a little longer, saw the nurse again, waited a bit more, asked the nurse a question, then waited a bit longer, I finally got two shots in my upper arm and another in my forearm to test for tuberculosis. As Susan typed I looked to my left and saw a hamper with that scary bio hazard symbol. I wonder what kind of detergent they wash those gowns in. Imagine all the gross things those gowns have seen; what if they get washed in regular, ol' Tide? That's when I prayed that they got washed in a high-tech, double strength, disease killing, special hospital detergent.

The nurse, Susan, was very nice. She laughed at my jokes and was frustrated with the doctor which was just fine with me because I didn't like her very much. The doctor wore an ugly shirt, looked into my eyes too much and wasn't married. I want a doctor who is a bit homely, with maybe three kids. I picture her as a big woman, not fat, but motherly. Maybe she'll smile at my pathetic attempts to joke, because that is my only reaction when I'm nervous, and tell a few of her own.

Not only did Susan laugh at my jokes, but when she asked me, "What are you going to school for?" Her reaction to my response, "Technical theatre" was "Fantastic!" Whereas the doctor said, "Interesting..."

Three and a half hours later I have two Snoopy band aids and another appointment to discover if I've been exposed to tuberculosis. I thanked Susan and left.

I didn't notice that my arm was sore until I got home from work. It's so very strange that the entire arm can get sore from just a small object.


Carmen.