Today I went to the doctor to ask about the weird weakness and heart skippiness I’ve experience for the last few days. As expected, it’s probably nothing serious. (I’ll be scheduling a follow-up test soon, but the doctor is talking about getting baseline data, not looking for anything scary.) But sitting in the waiting room and trying maintain a lack of eye-contact with my fellow patients, I found myself contemplating why this is such a nerve wracking experience.

I suppose few people enjoy going to the doctor, but I’m not normally an anxious person, and I was decidedly anxious. So much so, in fact, that the nurse later commented on my blood pressure and heart rate. And no, this was not reassuring.

Letting my eyes wander across the four different patterns of chairs lined up in the waiting room, I tried telling myself that I was nervous because this is the only time I’ve gone to the doctor for anything other than a check up (except for one strep test when I was 9 or 10-ish). But then I realized that it probably has more to do with what has thus far been the majority of my interactions with doctors: traumatic injury, surgery, and rehab, followed by more surgery… and all of this twice before the age of 14. For whatever reason, ever since blowing out my elbow when I was 9 and similarly destroying my hip when I was 12, I guess I worry that most doctors really just want to cut me open and fill me with pins, plates, and screws.

“This doctor is not an orthopedic surgeon,” I told myself as I sat there in the waiting room, staring at the bewilderingly pattered rug and consciously unclenching my fingers under my folded coat. “She’s not even interested in my bones or in looking directly under my skin. And she certainly won’t want to knock me out.”

A tiny woman walked in and sat down, maneuvering a walker that was easily twice her size. She looked calm and collected.

“Nothing’s broken… I’m not even in pain. The worst they’ll do is stick me for blood, and that’s certainly not scary.”

A woman and a man walked in, arms entwined, and announced that they were there for a prenatal appointment. They looked downright happy.

The tiny woman got called back for her appointment.

“It’ll probably be a really quick appointment, since I’ve been feeling better yesterday and today. They’ll say, ‘Huh, that was weird. Let us know if it comes back.’ And I’ll leave.”

…

None of this helped. But I suppose I have to go to the doctor so rarely that maybe it’s ok just to say that this is one of those things that will scare me.