The Doctor’s Appointment
It’s time for a routine physical exam.
This means I must experience the Three Circles of Timelessness – a challenging series of obstacles I must overcome before I actually get to talk to a doctor. Picture American Ninja Warrior in a health clinic.
FIRST CIRCLE: THE APPOINTMENT
“I’d like to make an appointment,” I tell the nurse who has answered the phone.
“What’s the problem?” she asks.
“No problem,” I admit. “I want to schedule a physical.”
“We have an opening in 31 months. Is 2:00 p.m. all right?”
“Let me think about it,” I say, and hang up.
I call back. Using a dishrag and a Scandinavian accent, I try again: “I’d like to make an appointment.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Brain tumor. The size of a musk melon. Oh … and gangrene.”
“We can fit you in a week from Friday. 9:00 a.m.”
“Terrific. See you then.”
SECOND CIRCLE: THE WAITING ROOM
I’m in the waiting room.
My appointment was at 9:00 a.m. It’s now 2:00 p.m. For the last five hours, I’ve been doing exactly what a person does in a waiting room. I’ve waited.
This doesn’t really bother me. I know that as soon as I walk into a doctor’s office, I cross some kind of International Date Line, and the universal laws of time no longer apply. I’m in a time warp where nine o’clock has become two, Friday is Tuesday, and General McArthur has just returned to the Philippines.
This time warp is, of course, obvious from the selection of magazines. National Geographics from the Roaring Twenties are scattered across an end table. A yellowing Sports Illustrated crumbles in my hands like an ancient parchment. I flip through a Ladies Home Journal written in Sanskrit. For the past half hour, I’ve been reading several Highlights for Children from the Mesozoic Era.
Finally, the nurse calls me, and directs me to a room.
THIRD CIRCLE: THE EXAMINATION ROOM
The severest test of all, the examination room has all the charm of a prison cell. But that’s okay. I’ve made it to the inner circle. If I can hang on for a while longer, I’ll see a doctor. I perch on the examination table and plan how to spend the next few hours.
There’s a pillow the size of an after-dinner mint on the table, so I could probably take a nap. Or, I could stare at the sink. Or I could sit in the chair and stare at the X-ray viewer. The possibilities are endless. I decide to stare at the floor, since I can squint and make out zoo animals in the linoleum pattern.
I’m awakened out of a trance by the sound of voices right outside my room. But no one enters.
An indeterminate amount of time later, the door knob turns. But no one enters.
I don’t mind these little tortures, because I know they are simply to test my endurance and strength of purpose.
Then, when I least expect it, the door bursts open, and in comes the doctor.
“You and I have a great deal in common,” I tell him.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“We both need a lot of patience.”