I’ve been dreading my yearly doctors visit since before the pandemic was even a guest star on Horrorscape 2020. Doctor visits are disturbing for many reasons, not the least of which is they force me to strip naked and stand on a scale, two independently triggering experiences I work hard to keep seperate. Invariably the nurse shouts out my weight in loud, sonorous waves, often followed by a comment about how much less I used to weigh at my last visit. They wait until I’m close to tears before finally shoving a needle in me and draining me of my blood.
The hospital texted in March to say all appointments were cancelled for the foresseable future, which was a relief. Even without the fat shaming, I was too paranoid about COVID to voluntarily enter anywhere sick people congregated. But last week my phoned dinged with a voice mail and the cheery voice on the phone confirmed my yearly check up.
“It’s fine,” insisted them woman when I called to confront her. “There isn’t a COVID ward here and I haven’t seen anyone in weeks! Come on in!” She then reminded me that COVID isn’t the only thing can could kill me, which was cruel but effective. She echoed the ads the NYC governor has been pushing urging people to get their routine visits done, since most everybody postponed this. I confess most of my medical knowledge comes from basic biology courses taken years ago or else my near obsession with how many things can kill you in medical dramas like Grey’s Anatomy. One memorable episode left me with phobias of chalk, insects AND Latex.
Quarantine has only added to my list of fears, a predictable consequence of dressing like a condom every time you walk outside. The walk to the hospital was solitary. Stores along the way were either shuttered, barricaded or else closed permanently. The hospital, appropriately named Mount Sinai, looks remarkably like the opening shot of a TV procedural. A large, imposing, impersonal building, it has a lobby made entirely of glass, which is fun because you can see straight out to the hospital staff puffing defiantly on cigarettes while you wait to get checked in.
Entering was like going through a military checkpoint. There were security guards outside and inside, reconfirming names and appointments; behind them was the first line of nurses offering hand sanitizers, making sure people wore masks but took off their gloves. They were followed by another row of nurses and even more sanitizer. I was directed to stand in an open elevator but not touch any buttons, nor let anyone ride with me, as a security guard leaned over with a stick to operate the console and then jumped back as if electrocuted.
I made my way alone through a labyrinth of grey corridors and hallways, unable to shake the feeling that I was somehow intruding because there were simply no other patients there. Not even one. By the time I got to my appointment room, there were three more nurses there waiting with (bless them) more hand sanitizer.
For all the the theatre and protocol, my actual appointment remained remarkably impersonal and quick. The doctor came and, with that bored tone that only doctors have while avoiding eye contact, assured me wearing masks drastically “lessened” our risk of catching COVID, even in the small examination room. Yes, I too noticed “lessened” and not the vastly more comforting “evicerated from existence”. The whole thing took all of ten minutes and before I knew it, I was outside with the blue scrub smokers again. Although there were hardly any patients in this hospital, every member of staff I saw looked tired and anxious, and I could only imagine the battles they have been waging while I hid in my apartment.
Going there was perhaps the first time in the last twelve weeks that I have felt anything resembling safe. We have - all of us - survived without strong leadership at a time when we needed it most, so I suppose is natural to feel abject relief when an expert like a doctor tells you, even if only for a brief moment, that everything is OK.
It’s not, obviously. There is a second wave coming, more deadly in those places that ignored the first. But, if you’re interested in learning what else can kill you, particularly around doctors embroiled in a marital affairs, I have some excellent TV shows that you should watch from the safety of your bunker.
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com
The hospital texted in March to say all appointments were cancelled for the foresseable future, which was a relief. Even without the fat shaming, I was too paranoid about COVID to voluntarily enter anywhere sick people congregated. But last week my phoned dinged with a voice mail and the cheery voice on the phone confirmed my yearly check up.
“It’s fine,” insisted them woman when I called to confront her. “There isn’t a COVID ward here and I haven’t seen anyone in weeks! Come on in!” She then reminded me that COVID isn’t the only thing can could kill me, which was cruel but effective. She echoed the ads the NYC governor has been pushing urging people to get their routine visits done, since most everybody postponed this. I confess most of my medical knowledge comes from basic biology courses taken years ago or else my near obsession with how many things can kill you in medical dramas like Grey’s Anatomy. One memorable episode left me with phobias of chalk, insects AND Latex.
Quarantine has only added to my list of fears, a predictable consequence of dressing like a condom every time you walk outside. The walk to the hospital was solitary. Stores along the way were either shuttered, barricaded or else closed permanently. The hospital, appropriately named Mount Sinai, looks remarkably like the opening shot of a TV procedural. A large, imposing, impersonal building, it has a lobby made entirely of glass, which is fun because you can see straight out to the hospital staff puffing defiantly on cigarettes while you wait to get checked in.
Entering was like going through a military checkpoint. There were security guards outside and inside, reconfirming names and appointments; behind them was the first line of nurses offering hand sanitizers, making sure people wore masks but took off their gloves. They were followed by another row of nurses and even more sanitizer. I was directed to stand in an open elevator but not touch any buttons, nor let anyone ride with me, as a security guard leaned over with a stick to operate the console and then jumped back as if electrocuted.
I made my way alone through a labyrinth of grey corridors and hallways, unable to shake the feeling that I was somehow intruding because there were simply no other patients there. Not even one. By the time I got to my appointment room, there were three more nurses there waiting with (bless them) more hand sanitizer.
For all the the theatre and protocol, my actual appointment remained remarkably impersonal and quick. The doctor came and, with that bored tone that only doctors have while avoiding eye contact, assured me wearing masks drastically “lessened” our risk of catching COVID, even in the small examination room. Yes, I too noticed “lessened” and not the vastly more comforting “evicerated from existence”. The whole thing took all of ten minutes and before I knew it, I was outside with the blue scrub smokers again. Although there were hardly any patients in this hospital, every member of staff I saw looked tired and anxious, and I could only imagine the battles they have been waging while I hid in my apartment.
Going there was perhaps the first time in the last twelve weeks that I have felt anything resembling safe. We have - all of us - survived without strong leadership at a time when we needed it most, so I suppose is natural to feel abject relief when an expert like a doctor tells you, even if only for a brief moment, that everything is OK.
It’s not, obviously. There is a second wave coming, more deadly in those places that ignored the first. But, if you’re interested in learning what else can kill you, particularly around doctors embroiled in a marital affairs, I have some excellent TV shows that you should watch from the safety of your bunker.
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com