Down the Tubes Productions

I don’t go to the doctor much. Never have. My karma’s been kind enough to lend me a healthy constitution; no amendments necessary.  I also happen to be a wee bit of a klutz so the most daring physical activity I engage in is hiking. Combined with my introverted default state being home alone reading, I don’t often need to visit a doctor on account of an injury. Rarely have. Hell, I don’t think I had a physical in either high school or college. My hearing loss brought that streak to an end.

When I got promoted from a data center full of droning and humming to a cube farm full of whispering and snide-commenting, I knew the time had come. I needed to get bionic ears.. But because of the wonder that is the American healthcare system, I needed to see my primary care physician (PCP) for him to tell me that I had not, in fact, outgrown my hereditary hearing deficiency. He would say “yep, your genes haven’t magically altered”, write me a referral to a ear nose and throat (ENT) specialist, and I’d be on my merry way. But there was one problem.

My PCP had retired.

Oops.

Since this is not to be a post about me finding a new PCP, I’ll say that it happened and leave it at that. And you know what happened after I got them? I restarted my streak of not seeing my new PCP! But if Ripken taught us anything it’s that streaks are made to be broken. After some hard work getting through my thick skull, I was finally convinced going that to the doctor annually was a smart thing to do. Now, I’ve started a new streak!

I’ve been a good doobie and seen my PCP annually since 2021. It’s no 2131, but it’s something. The astute reader may have noticed something about the year my streak started. It was in The Time of Masking. 

Though the vaccines were wildly available, and I had gotten my series, masks were still required in the office. The hard of hearing gauntlet began at administration. Since we’re talking about four years ago, I don’t remember specific details. But I sure as hell remember that the receptionist wore a mask, and the nurse who took my vitals wore a mask, and you bet your sweet bippy the doctor wore a mask. Oh, but the doctor had a special surprise for me. A phone!

She was still trying to adhere to social distancing guidelines and not spend too much time close to me. So she went through all the routine questions and all the rote lectures over the phone. She stood on the other side of the exam room’s closed door and I sat in my skivvies on that cold tissue paper that covered the table. This was before I had a phone that could stream directly to my aids. I need a Bluetooth streamer to bridge the gap. But I hadn’t thought to bring my ConnectClip. Because I was not used to having the call coming from inside the house. When she came in to do the ol’ poke and prod, she came in with a mask…two of them. One of those cheap paper ones and a clear plastic shield that looked like it was trying to be a welder’s mask.

And she was surprised when my blood pressure was as high as a Wookie is tall.

This sublimely horrific experience was one of the things that made up the cocktail of terror which led to me finally self-identify as hard of hearing. I don’t think it’s fair that I have to self-identify as having a medical condition at a doctor’s office. But no one ever said life was fair.

I still struggle with identifying at the doctor’s office. At future appointments I tried using a closed caption app, but I did so on the sly. Which meant I kept my phone and its mic too far from the voice I was straining to hear. I’ve tried bluffing, which meant an answer or two didn’t match the question. So I stopped both. And now I say “what?” when I need to. Which is often. Because masks are still worn at my PCP’s office. Not by everyone but by my PCP.

“What?” too many times
and the mask is pulled aside.
What then, is the point?