Doctor-Patient Confidentiality Box Set

by Eme Strife

  Several people are crowded at the various bus stops in their heavy winter gear as vapor escapes their mouths and nostrils.

  Everything looks so bleak, and winter's only just begun. We're barely two weeks in and already the place looks like fucking Antarctica.

  I sigh, resigning myself to the reality that I'm going to have to deal with five more months of this crap.

  We finally get to the clinic, and I feel my skin crawl as soon as we walk through the transparent glass doors. I fight the urge to hold my breath as I feel an expected wave of nausea rushes over me. I do my utmost best not to freak out. I don't exactly have the best memories of places like this.

  I hate clinics.

  And hospitals.

  And sick bays.

  And any other types of health centers and facilities.

  Just being in them makes me feel ill.

  Trixie and I are rudely ushered into the main waiting lounge by one of the disgruntled-looking receptionists where we wait.

  And wait.

  And wait some more.

  It takes two and a half bloody hours for the nurse practitioner to see me from the time we get there. I'm really not an impatient person, and I get that waiting times can be long, especially since the clinic's services are free to students—which is the only reason I can even come here—but come on!

  I mean, seriously? It's not even that crowded today, and they don't start giving out flu shots for like another month. And after what I endured this morning, I don't think I have a lot of patience for much else today.

  After watching several staff members walking up and down the hallway, going through seven issues of various magazines and countless 'safe sex' brochures, I finally get called into one of the examination rooms.

  Trixie, despite her own impatience, continues to wait for me in the waiting room, playing Angry Birds on her phone to keep herself from catapulting a projectile at someone in real life.

  I'm really happy she's here.

  Despite her outward appearance, she's one of the most caring people I know. She's such a gem, and with my grandma three and a half hours away and not many other people I can depend on, I'm pretty sure my life would be a lot less exciting and a helluva lot more depressing had we not sat next to each other on the first day of orientation. Our friendship was practically instantaneous, and she's been one of the few people who's fully embraced me ever since I started school here.

  I shut the door behind me, and another wave of nausea hits me as I take in the bland white walls and the sterile smell of the closed room. I feel goosebumps forming on my skin and the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention.

  I feel trapped.

  I hear the smacking of rubber against skin and turn to see a woman in maybe her early fifties or so putting on a pair of disposable gloves. The blue translucent latex fits a bit loosely on her slender hands.

  "You can put your bag over there, hon," she says as she points over to an equally white countertop by a barred window. The idea of leaving any of my belongings unattended here makes me feel extremely uneasy.

  Maybe I should've just left my stuff with Trixie in the waiting room. I reluctantly place my bag and jacket where she suggests, eyeing it from time to time as I lie on the examination bed.

  She brings out some equipment including a pressure meter and a thermometer, presumably to take my blood pressure and other vitals. I feel the pressure on my wrist increase as the band tightens with each squeeze she gives the pump.

  My eyes travel over to the laminated name tag clipped onto her breast pocket.

  Jane Seyfried.

  Her name is Jane…

  Like my mother.

  I glance at her face again, admiring the way she focuses and her level of concentration at the task at hand. She really does look like a Jane; poised and graceful with a subtle and quiet strength about her. Women like this are often overlooked, but are always missed dearly when they're gone…

  Like my mother.

  I feel my chest constricting again as the threat of oncoming tears burn my eyes. Today is just not a good day. I wish I would have just slept in and said I was sick. I sure as hell feel like it now.

  As Jane continues to take my vitals, she asks me a range of questions including, "Are you currently sexually active?", "When was your last period?", "When were you last sexually active?", and "How many sexual partners have you ever had?"

  No.

  Last week.

  Six years ago.

  One.

  Personally, I think most of the questions are irrelevant to my situation, but I guess they're pretty standard for college girls everywhere, especially here in a Wisconsin college town where the only thing everyone does aside from drink obscene amounts of alcohol is screw everyone who drinks obscene amounts of alcohol.

  She finally gets to the actual examination, ushering me to lift my top as I lay back. The air feels warm on my exposed skin, but not even that can get rid of the chills this place gives me.

  She proceeds to examine my torso, intermittently pressing her gloved hands firmly on various areas of my belly.

  "Let me know if you feel any pain," she says.

  I nod, "Okay." It barely comes out in a whisper. I'm so uncomfortable right now. The only thing that's making this even remotely bearable for me is her soothing and endearing voice. She seems like a really sweet and patient person, and I hope my show of discomfort doesn't make her think I'm just being a bratty tool or a whiny crybaby.

  Her fingers wallow around for several seconds as I feel nothing but the rubbery texture of latex and the rapid thudding of my heart in my chest.

  She presses firmly right under the center of my ribcage and my body retreats on reflex.

  Okay. That's definitely the spot.

  ***

  Nurse Jane pinpoints the area of concern, touching the same area again and parts adjacent to it to confirm that it is, in fact, the source of my ailment.

  "It could be a number of things,” she says. “Have you eaten or drank anything out of the ordinary since it began?"

  "No, not that I can think of," I say, my voice a lot hoarser than I remember it being.

  "Do you drink heavily?" she asks.

  This is Wisconsin. And I work at a bar. Define heavily.

  "Not really…," I say, the uncertainty obvious in my voice.

  "Do you drink more than once a week and about how much in that time period?"

  "I really only drink occasionally,” I say. “Maybe once or twice a month. Beer mostly. No more than a bottle each time."

  And that's only really because I'm broke. Like most adults my age, I'd probably drink more if I wasn't so strapped for cash all the damn time.

  She simply nods. She rolls my top back down, and I can only assume she's done. "You're certainly not the typical college girl, huh? No boyfriends, virtually no drinking…" she trails off with a gentle smile.

  The smile I give her in return is unsure as I simply say, "I just don't really have the time for all that right now."

  Or the freaking money.

  I know I don’t have the desire either. At least not for the boyfriend part.

  But I'm not about to explain my life story to a stranger in

  a gloomy examination room who just got done poking my belly, no matter how nice she seems.

  She takes off each glove with a pop and smack, and discards them into the trash receptacle at her feet.

  "We can't really determine what's causing you the discomfort without doing either an ultrasound or an endoscopy at this point. Since you noticed the abnormality over a month ago, I would highly recommend that you get either one as soon as possible.

  “It can be IBS or the beginnings of a gastric ulcer or something else entirely. Whatever it is, it seems to be concentrated just below your ribcage so I can probably rule out IBS, but again, you'll have to meet with a physician to really determine what it is.

  "We don't offer ultrasound services here at the clinic, but I can refer you to s
omeone over at the Greenwood Surgical Center. You know the one on Hashinger Boulevard, about three miles from here? They offer all those services and more, and the doctors there will definitely be able to help you out a lot more than we can over here."

  She keeps going on for a bit longer, mostly reiterating what she's already said, but I've pretty much stopped listening to her at this point. All sorts of things are going through my mind, haphazardly bouncing around in utter chaos, and I can almost hear my brain cussing me out as it spins out of control with so many thoughts at once.

  An ultrasound or endoscopy? The surgical center?

  What the fuck?

  I don't have the money for any of that!

  And I sure as fuck don't have health insurance anymore.

  My eyes dart around the room restlessly as I try to compose my roguish thoughts. My expression must be a clear reflection of how shitty I feel right now, because she seems to read my troubled mind.

  "Give me just a second, I'll be right back," she says before she heads out of the room. The door closes after her with a fairly soft thud. Even the way she closes doors is gentle. My father would have liked her. He was always so touchy about how people closed doors, whether in buildings or cars, saying shutting them too hard could end up with someone losing their finger.

  Another sigh escapes me for the million and third time today.

  I really don't want to be thinking about my dad right now. I feel myself go limp as if the very essence of me has been sucked out of my body through a wide straw.

  God, this really sucks ass.

  Where the hell am I supposed to get money for an ultrasound?

  The door opens again suddenly, and Jane's presence fills the room once more. She holds out a crisp white 2 x 4" card as she approaches me.

  "Here," she simply says as she hands it over to me.

  I take it and hold it firmly between my long fingers as I read the professionally formatted, dark blue font on it.

  John T. Templin, M.D. Chief Surgeon, Greenwood

  Surgical Center.

  She moves over to the hand sanitizer dispenser and rubs a few pumps all over her hands.

  "John's a great doctor and a frequent referral of ours. Plus, he's my brother," she adds with a smile. "I've given him a call and told him he should be expecting you around one-thirty this afternoon if that time works for you. Your consultation with him is on me, and he'll be able to determine if you even really need an ultrasound or any other in-depth diagnostic procedure at that point. All right?"

  I’m not sure what to make of this extension of kindness. I don't know why she's being nice to me, and I'm not sure how to react. The paranoid skeptic in me sees this as a bit of a red flag, searching for any signs that her kindness is some sort of gimmick, but there don't seem to be any.

  "Tha-Thank you," I manage. It sounds a lot less enthusiastic than I'd like, especially since she's being so nice, but I'm confused and worried on so many levels right now. Thankfully, she doesn't seem to mind my bland response.

  "No problem, sugar. Good luck with everything, 'kay?"

  "Thanks." I force a smile once more as she leaves the room.

  I soon follow suit, grabbing my belongings hastily, far too eager to get the hell out of that room and out of that entire building altogether.

  Thankfully, Trixie shares my sentiments.

  ***

  I have about three hours until my appointment with Doctor Templin, and since Trixie doesn't have class for another hour, we decide to get some breakfast before either one of us passes out from starvation.

  She calls Bill and has him meet us over at the Overground, the largest eatery on west campus. Bill lets us know that he's already there by the time we arrive, with seats saved for both of us.

  He's undeniably punctual for everything, even something as informal and trivial as getting food. While I find it overzealous at times, now is not one of them. The place is packed and crowded as hell, and his early-bird tendencies are definitely paying off in our favor right now.

  Several bright yellow signs are randomly scattered across the hall, cautioning everyone that it's slippery and to be careful. I look down at the floor. It's covered in haphazard muddy shoe prints and has a few soggy paper towels and disposable cups littered here and there as well.

  It looks disgusting.

  Suddenly, my appetite evades me. I can almost actually feel it leaving my body. If being at the clinic earlier hadn't already made me nauseous, the sight of this floor would have done the job perfectly.

  After more minutes of rummaging through the crowd to find Bill and having Trixie say, "I can't hear you, you're breaking off," twenty times over the phone, I finally spot him at one of the bar stools by the east wall, frowning at a newspaper from behind nerdy glasses and running a hand through his disheveled dark blonde hair.

  I tug at Trixie's elbow to get her attention. "There he is," I say, pointing over to where Bill is seated. We make our way over to him with a bit of difficulty, trying to not get knocked over as we constantly rub and bump shoulders with every other person who's also trying to get by.

  "Ugh, why the fuck does it always have to be so damn crowded in here? It's like a goddamn flea market on steroids," Trixie scoffs.

  I completely agree, but I don't say anything. My mind is still preoccupied with worry. I'm worried about what this Doctor Templin guy might potentially find. I'm worried that I don't have health coverage in case it is serious, and that I can't afford to be sick on any level right now. The Koplan performance is two weeks away, and I don't have the money to deal with this.

  Aside from my grandmother, singing is all I have left. It's really the only thing I can rely on and call my own.

  Without it, I'm…lost.

  And whatever this thing is, it's disrupting it. I simply cannot have that.

  I try to breathe and think positively. It might be nothing. Maybe it's all in my head. I'm probably freaking out for nothing.

  I let out another frustrated sigh as I realize that I can't seem to convince myself that things are truly okay. They’re not, and I can feel it my gut.

  Literally.

  As we approach Bill, I grab Trixie's arm and pull her back for a second to whisper in her ear.

  "Hey, you mind not saying anything to Bill about earlier? I don't really want anyone else knowing about it. At least not until after I know what's wrong."

  It's not that I don't trust Bill or that I can't confide in him. I'm just not comfortable with sharing a lot of my problems with people, even with Trixie at times. I'm not really sure why, especially since they're fairly open with me about the nitty-gritty of their own lives.

  "Sure," she nods. She has a slightly worried look on her face, but a smile soon brightens it up again.

  "Come on, we'll get run over if we keep standing in the middle of the way here," she says as she continues to walk.

  She places her backpack on the seat next to Bill with a loud thud.

  "Hey, Pooch," she says as she snatches the newspaper from his hands before he even gets a chance to speak. "And what a surprise! You're actually here without your girlfriend for once," she adds snarkily, the word ‘girlfriend’ laced with a bitter undertone.

  He offers a groan in response. "I was reading that! And are you really still going to keep calling me that? We aren't ten anymore, you know." He clearly ignores her show of disdain toward his girlfriend, Gina. Then again, he’s probably used to it by now.

  She looks at him with a nonchalant expression. "What, you mean ‘Pooch’? Please. You absolutely love that name," she says with a wry grin. There’s nothing more on the planet Trixie loves more than teasing Bill.

  "Right. I absolutely love being called a name you only gave me because you thought I was a good replacement for a pet after your dog died," he says sarcastically, smiling nonetheless. He turns to me and puts his hands up dramatically. "You see what I have to put up with every day?"

  All I can do is chuckle and shake my head. I've known both of
them for over a year now, but these two have been friends long before I came into the picture, and the chemistry between them is undeniable. Any outsider can see they're meant to be together, even if they aren't.

  Trixie hasn't explicitly told me this, but it's not hard to see that she has feelings for him, and considering that they've been friends since they were both eight years old, she's probably had them for a while. And if I know her as well as I think I do, Satan will go ice-skating in a bright pink tutu before she tells him how she feels about him. And I can understand why.