Down the Tubes Productions

I reach the heavy door, take a deep breath, and then push it open while humming the theme from “Rocky” to myself as I step into the “ring” – in this case, the office of my primary care practitioner. 

I am about to navigate my own personal title match – the bobbing, weaving, and level of attention required of me to make it through several rounds of battle is exhausting. I have no choice but to face my opponent head-on as it is critical that I keep up with my overall health – particularly as I muddle my way through middle age. 

Round 1: The Check-In Window

I approach cautiously and position myself in front of the plexiglass pane. I stand in a loose fighting stance – feet shoulder width apart, standing with confidence. The panel slides open with a creak, and I face opponent #1 – the secretary without a mask, which is a small victory, but alas she is eating and slurping her drink at the same time. I am asked a question – through a combination of catching some of what was said and employing my excellent context clues I determine that she is asking my name, date of birth, purpose of the visit and all other manner of things that you encounter when you are checking in at a doctor’s office. I accept the clipboard and cheap pen that is handed to me, nod in understanding that I need to complete this and bring it with me into the office, and am waved away to find a seat in the waiting room. Round 2 has now begun. 

Round 2: The Waiting Room

I move carefully side to side, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, carefully eyeing my opponent and determining my next move. I need to select a seat so I can rewrite all of the information that is in my electronic records on this yellow paper attached to the junky blue plastic clipboard. I’m already aggravated, this navigation of finding a seat is not helping my mood, but I’m channeling that energy and saving it for the battles ahead. 

I run through a quick mental checklist of seating options and quickly eliminate the following: 

1. Next or near the office door – too risky, too much noise with the door swinging open and people walking up to the window to check-in, will make it hard to hear my name called 
2. Corner seat – located under the wall mounted TV which is on at a low volume but just loud enough for me to hear if I am seated too close, so forget that spot. 
3. Corner seat away from the wall mounted TV, facing the office door – seems like a perfect choice until I realize that this puts me with my back to the door where the nurses come out and call the names of patients. Hard pass. 

I am left with the necessary but unappealing seat against the left side wall. It faces forward, has a clear sight line of the door where patients are summoned, and my back is to the wall which will help with the acoustics and give me half a shot at winning this round. The problem? It’s a tad too close to a sniveling child. 

I barely survived Round 2 – and am now at risk for some disease thanks to my seated neighbor who enthusiastically and frequently drags his sleeve across his nose with alarming frequency.

Round 3: It’s Getting Physical Now…

I train my eyes intently on the swinging door, waiting for my next opponent to step through and call my name. The door opens, the nurse steps out, and she’s wearing a mask. I’m now fighting handicapped (literally) – and resort to hyperfocusing on the number of syllables being uttered and training my ear to pick up an “oo” and an “ee” together, to have a better chance at identifying my name. I hear what I hope is my name, jump to my feet, and take confident strides towards the nurse, ready to go back to the exam room. 

I am strong, standing and ready to keep rolling with the punches when I have to get knocked back momentarily by the neverending “disclosure” speech that I inevitably need to give to every new person that crosses my path. I am following the nurse down the hallway and it is time for me to employ my seasoned right hook – dropping the hearing impairment. I start with “Excuse me” and continue with “Just to let you know, I wear two hearing aids and I will let you know if I need something repeated”. I’m met with either a smile, a verbal acknowledgement or the ever dehumanizing blank stare – but that’s another topic for another day.

I am let into the exam room, necessary questions are asked and answered, which I seemed to have handled correctly as no follow-up questions were posed. I am rewarded for my efforts with an exam gown crafted out of cheap paper towels. I don this tacky garment, and scramble up to a seated position on the exam table, feeling like a spider monkey because the little step hasn’t been pulled out for those of us that need an extra bit of height. I perch on the edge, my legs swinging around in midair, and my ankles are cold.

In comes the doctor, the disclosure happens again, and as the exam continues the doctor grabs the tool to look into my ears – and has the audacity to appear shocked that there are hearing aids blocking their ability to peek down the ear canals. The words that escape their mouth are “Oh. Please remove your hearing aids”.  No kidding. Thanks for the direction. 

The rest of the appointment goes relatively smoothly, I hear everything (as far as I know) and escape unscathed. 

I have won the round, but not the match. One more dance around the ring awaits…

Round 4: The Knockout Punch 

The paper towel gown has been discarded, I am once again back in my cute clothes, slightly worse for the wear. I am exhausted and mildly aggravated, but am drawing deep from my reserves to deliver the final blow and ensure victory. 

I step back out into the waiting room, and am once again faced with the plexiglass panel. 

It’s checkout time. One more bob and weave, and I’m clear from the ring. 

I approach the counter, bracing for the punches that are coming because the secretary handling the check-out process is in a mask. Time to take control of this fight.  I gain her attention and the second the panel slides open, I unload all of my rolling punches in one pass as I say, “Hello – Julie Lane, checking out from my annual physical, I will call and schedule for next year and I would like to be billed for the copayment. I have no prescriptions that need to be filled, and I do not have any referrals to any specialists.”  A cursory nod is issued in response, and I briskly walk to the exit door. 

Round 5: Victory 

I exit the medical building, and raise my fist high in the air in victory, imagining the voice of Howard Cosell excitedly yelling, “Down goes the annual physical! The Bronx is burning!”. 

I slump into the driver’s seat of my car, both thrilled and dejected, that this is a hard won fight that will be replayed over and over again with every medical appointment. 

As much as I’d like to hang up my gloves, I can never retire from boxing.