In Utah, waking up in January with a sore throat seems practically customary. You shovel snow one day, then you chill in a waiting room in a clinic. Coffee in hand, I slink in half-awake and half-hopeful, trying to recall if I picked up my insurance card. The receptionist chuckles about the early cold and looks for my name with a warm smile. I mark a date here, a yes there, rapidly peruse the forms, leave the difficult questions blank. My handwriting calls for a doctor in training. More help!
The clinic moves on its own beat. Not shy about her teething pain, a newborn makes sure the entire room knows. The TV in the corner turns between news and an animated show, reminding me of after-school munchies. Like a bingo game, names are announced one by one and each person returns to start their second round of waiting.
Walking in carrying a notebook is Nurse Betty. “We all shrink eventually,” she replies, noting my height and softly guides me back. She begins the regular checkups, and the discussion remains light. She laughs when I inquire, “Was it high?” concerning my blood pressure, “Could be worse—mine spikes every time I see my mother-in-law.”
The exam room smells mildly of disinfection and someone’s earlier dinner. I try not to pick too many calls. Dr. Ellis walks in, shakes my hand, and instead of turning to face a screen. She looks at me. She probes my throat, but also my anxieties, my grandmother’s cinnamon buns—perhaps I overshared. She taps her pen, listens the way you want a doctor to, and muses over a prescription with a smiling face scribbled on the side.
Nothing seems frightening at checkout. They lay out the charges, clarify what my insurance covers, and direct me down the hall toward the flu vaccination queue. Grandma, seated next to me, grabs a butterscotch from the bottom of her purse. I go feeling lighter, prescription in hand, advise in my pocket, and a fresh story to tell next time I’m coughing and snowed in.