I waited in the windowless exam room for the medical specialist, an expert in pulmonary matters. I wasn’t sick, but I needed advice on lung problems because I’d had some shortness of breath. Such worries erupt as I get older.
The room seemed to become smaller as I waited. I tried to stay calm and practice breathing slowly. I’d brought The Week magazine to browse during what I knew would be a long wait; nothing like news of a pandemic to quiet one’s fears. My watch recorded the sluggish passing of time, as if the colorless room cut me off from the rotation of the earth.
Eventually the doctor walked into the room in a white coat carrying a large folder. He was younger than me, a slight man who seemed uncomfortable. He muttered something unintelligible and sat on a tall stool facing a high desk. He opened the folder and paged through the material, as if he preferred to deal with his papers rather than a woman with lungs.
“I have some questions about …,” I began, hoping to gain his attention.
“I can’t answer questions until I’ve read this material.” He turned the pages. “I’ll need to order some tests.”
“But… can you tell if I have a lung problem? What’s going on?” Did shortness of breath signify a serious illness? Did I have cancer? Should I get my affairs in order? Was he listening?
“I can’t tell you anything until I see the results of the tests,” he said. “Barbara will make the arrangements with the hospital.”
He slid off the stool, gathered his papers and left the room in a twirl of white.
Tests? What tests? Hospital? Still seated in my chair, I waited for Barbara to appear and answer my questions. Was Barbara on her way? Not a stir outside the door.
I took out my pocket calendar, turning the pages with my thumb. Calendars remind me that I have a life. They comfort me. December. The End. Another year gone.
I went to the door to check if Barbara was on her way. The hallway was empty. The doctor had disappeared. Baffled, I felt abandoned. Where was Barbara?
Bravely, I walked down the corridor, the calendar clutched to my breast, and found a person who directed me to Barbara. There, sitting behind her desk, was a human being wearing glasses and gazing into a monitor.
Feeling foolish for having waited so long, I introduced myself and asked Barbara about the tests. Would they involve needles into the lungs? Radiation?
“I can’t answer your questions. You’ll see the doctor after the tests,” she said as she typed.
Still fearful, I went home and decided to write my own fantasy appointment with a sensitive, caring physician — one like Marcus Welby, MD, a television doctor, played years ago by the affable Robert Young. I let my imagination invent an imaginary world where a kind Dr. Welby had time to talk with me.
As Dr. Welby enters the exam room, he places a folder on a desk and introduces himself. Seated next to me on a low chair, he asks me to explain what’s going on with my breathing. Have I tried an inhaler? he asks with a smile. I shake my head.
After listening to my lungs, he tests my breathing with an instrument he has on the counter. He checks my fingernails for signs of stress.
“This doesn’t sound troublesome,” he says. “I’ve read some of your reports. I see you’re experiencing tiredness, lack of energy. It’s probably related to your breathing problem.”
“Yes. I’m quite fatigued. Is that serious? Are there ways to help?”
“You seem in good health. (I grin, proud of myself.) I’ll need to examine your history more thoroughly in these reports before I can be sure about what’s going on.”
“What happens after that?”
“Your shortness of breath could be caused by a number of things.” He outlines various possibilities and we discuss options. “I can order a scan and perhaps a sleep test,” he adds.
I frown — maybe glower. “You’ll notice in those reports that I had a biopsy of a growth on my lung twelve years ago. It was found to be benign. I’m not keen on tests.”
“Would you want another biopsy to check it out?”
“I don’t think so. If it’s cancer, I’ll probably refuse treatment at this age. What do you think?”
“I’d go with your decision. My clerk, Barbara, will set up one test that would help me get a better picture. Is that okay?”
I agree, and the doctor leaves after giving directions to Barbara’s desk.
Elaine Jordan, author of Mrs. Ogg Played the Harp, is a local editor who’s lived in Prescott for thirty years.
