The door closes with a soft click, sealing me inside a room that smells of alcohol and cotton swabs. The light is too bright, pouring down from overhead panels that have withstood the test of time. The entire room is bathed in a white-wash of light, leaving no shadows, except those that lie within me. A token landscape or two adorn the antiseptic walls, attempting to distract me from the impending sense of doom.

A straight-backed chair keeps me focused as I await the arrival of the person in the white jacket. Waiting only heightens my stress, giving my mind more time to imagine all the things that might go wrong.

I hear a conversation in the outer hallway, with footsteps coming and going. A perfunctory thank you is uttered as bodies move in opposite directions. When will the steps stop at my door?

The air is cool and still in this room, but my heart is racing. Before me is an exam table, its paper sheet pulled crisp and tight, awaiting its next occupant, perhaps me. This table feels like an awkward stage of sorts, putting me or another individual in this space on display. Is anything sacred anymore?

Closed cabinets loom ominously, their sharp, sterile instruments hidden inside. A blood pressure cuff lies innocently waiting. I do not expect mine to be low; it never is, because this is a place I would prefer not to be.

Finally, the doctor enters after a knock on the door. He offers a quick hello and a rushed smile as he settles into a chair between me and a computer screen. The hum of the computer and the clicking of the keyboard fill the silence of the room. His eyes dart back and forth between me and the glowing screen: question-answer, question-answer, click, click, silence. Half hearing what is said, as eyes move from screen to charts and tests, then back to me, back and forth, back and forth.

This space magnifies my every heartbeat, its pounding echoes inside my ears. Somewhere deep inside my chest, anxiety has settled in like an uninvited guest, reluctant to leave. I feel small and vulnerable here, as if I have lost my sense of identity, my sense of control.

At last, it is time to leave, and an explanation is offered, but this room lingers in my thoughts as I exit this space.

Here, in this small rectangular room, the practice of medicine occurs, but so does the building of trust, or the slow dissolution. What has it been today?

“The reality of the other person is not what he reveals to you, but in what he cannot reveal to you. Therefore, if you would understand him, listen not to what he says but rather to what he does not say. All can hear, but only the sensitive can understand.”
— Khalil Gibran

Michele Luckenbaugh is a patient advocate.