Is this real life?

Growing up with a mom who doubles as a nurse, I went to the doctor’s office maybe… 4 times. And the first time I went to the Emergency Room was when I was 19, and it’s because I drove myself there. So when my mom tells me I should go to the doctor, I get my butt to the doctor.

I couldn’t even explain to you if I tried – but military insurance is very confusing. First thing this morning, I had to drive up to the grocery store to make a million phone calls (because I get absolutely no reception at my house – like, negative bars, seriously). I couldn’t get into my doctor for three weeks (what kind of crazy is that?) so I received an authorization to go to urgent care (not of my choice, but of Tricare’s choice… hello red flag).

I’ve never been to an urgent care because I don’t even think they exist in the little tiny state I grew up in. So I finally get to the sketchy-looking office, fill out 74 pages of paperwork (almost literally), and sit. And wait. And wait. And probably catch the flu from all the hacking, sneezing, nasty-breathing people in the waiting room with me. An hour goes by and my phone is dying, which makes me have a slight panic attack (I’m addicted to technology… don’t judge me). Almost another hour goes by and they call my name. As I stand up, a man walks through the door with a handful of bloody tissues, and they rush him in ahead of me, instructing me to take a seat (yep, again). Yeah, because a finger almost sliced off is as important as my sore throat. Deep sigh, followed by coughing.

I finally get called again, this time without any bloody interruptions (hahaha, I crack myself up). The sweet lady calls me to the scale and kindly says, “Would you like to step on?” Is this real life? Is she serious? Would I like to weigh myself? Hi, I’m a female, nice to meet you. I look at her and uncomfortably laugh. “Should I take my boots off?” She smiles and tells me to do whatever I want. I want to take my boots off, and my pants, and my jacket, and my socks, and my shirt, and ten pounds, whatever else is about to accompany me to the scale. But I slide my boots off and stare down the face of the devil. The lady tells me that she’ll set my purse on the floor for me. You know what… I wasn’t feeling terrible enough about this entire situation, so yes, I’d love to stick my new/pricey Coach purse on this germ-infested floor. As if she reads my mind, she says, “This purse is too pretty to be on the floor. I’ll hold it.” Thank you, sweet angel… the highlight of my day.

I get into a small waiting room where she takes my BP, heart rate, temperature, and whatever else doctors do. I had a small fever, which secretly made me happy, because up until this point, I thought I might have been exaggerating/imagining my sickness. She informs me that the doctor will be in shortly, and leaves. I sit. And wait. And wait. And crinkle the annoying paper on the table. And crinkle some more. And I feel like the paper is crinkling with every breath I take. And the crinkling is giving me a migraine. I relocate to the chair designated for the doctor, I learn later, where I sit. And wait. And wait. And then I notice a colony of ants on the sink. How unsanitary, right? I follow their trail and see they are coming from a crack in the cheesy linoleum flooring. Yep, that’s just what I want to see in a medical office. Ants. Lovely.

I wait for another 40 minutes. I lay my head against the wall, remembering that I slept for about 2 hours last night in between my coughing fits and reruns of Roseanne. Then I sit up straight and have a weird fear that ants crawled in my hair. I start to get antsy (pun intended… I’m so lame) and get sidetracked with a disgusting box of BIOHAZARD needles. Gross. I hate the doctor’s office, in case you missed that memo. I start to get nosey and open cabinets underneath the sink. Begin déjà vu. I am such my mother’s child. I remember being younger and sitting in the doctor’s office (you know, those 4 times) and my mom would be poking around the drawers. I’d freak out like we were going to get arrested. And here I am doing it myself.

The doctor finally comes in and again, “Is this real life?” The doctor is a middle-aged Asian man, with long curly black and grey hair. He’s wearing a purple shirt with horizontal stripes and a blue tie with vertical stripes. That should say enough. He’s also wearing high-water pants (expecting a flood?) that are black… with dark blue socks… vomit. I hate that, in case you’ve never met me.

But I don’t judge people based on their terrible ability to match stripes with stripes, so myself and my open mind smile – and then, as life would have it, I have a hard time understanding him, which sucks for me because I feel like I’m missing something important. He tells me about how he’s feeling sick himself, living off cough drops and fighting the dry cough. Yay – that makes me feel better. Before I finish telling him my symptoms, he tells me it’s Bronchitis with a hint of asthma... whatever that means.

He assigns me a cocktail of prescriptions and inhalers, and in comes a medical assistant who looks younger than me. However, he’s wearing matching scrubs (no crazy array of stripes) so I feel more comfortable with him. I do a weird lung capacity test, and I fail miserably. Breathing at a lung capacity 29% lower than I should be, sick and all, he tells me that if I can’t pass, I’ll have to do a breathing treatment that’ll take another 45 minutes. After three hours of this ant-infested office, I’m ready to go. I give one more big breath, see a few stars, and hit 82%. I passed, and in result, came very close to passing out.

I’m finally on my way, and the rest of my afternoon is a strange whirlwind of “Is this real life?” type events. My phone dies exactly as my cousin is telling me the most important part of our conversation and then my prescriptions are nowhere to be seen at the pharmacy. My life. So now I’m home and watching Parenthood… absolutely the highlight of this off day. I just had a small cough attack where I was pretty sure my life was over. The inhalers didn’t do a thing… maybe I’m doing it wrong. 

Ants. On the sink. You know, where people wash their hands.