In Utah, waking up with a sore throat in January is practically a ritual. One day you shovel snow, next shiver in a clinic waiting room. Coffee in hand, I slink in half-awake, half-hopeful, trying to recall whether I carried my insurance card. The receptionist probes for my name. She turns over the forms and cracks a joke on the morning chill. I quickly go over the questions, skipping over the ones I cannot speak, circle a date here, and write a yes there. My writing falls somewhere between doctor and kid. Continue?
Other patients go at different speeds. One of someone’s babies is teething and not bashful about sharing this. The TV in the corner alternately shows news and an animated show that reminds me of after-school munchies. Like in bingo, names are announced one at a time; each winner returns for round two of waiting.
Nurse Betty steps forward with a copybook. She examines my height, waves me back, weights me silently, and says, “We all shrink eventually.” Blood pressure cuff starts, and the discussion continues amicable. When I inquire, “Was it high?” she is not bothered. She only smiles and says, “Could be worse—mine spikes every time I see my mother-in-law.”
The exam room smells mildly of disinfectant and someone’s meal from one hour ago. I try not to handle my phone excessively. Doctor Ellis walks in, shakes my hand, and instead of staring at a screen really locks eyes. She probes more about my throat than about my job, my stress level, my grandmother’s cinnamon buns (I might have overshared). She listens, much as one would want. She taps her pen, thinks, makes a prescription using a happy face doodle.
Checking the checkout is not frightening. They spell the charges, clarify what insurance covers, and show me a flu vaccination line down the hall. Grandma seated next to me pulls a butterscotch from the bottom of her purse. I leave feeling lighter, prescription in one hand, advise in the other, and a fresh tale to tell next time I’m snowed in coughing.