Today I rose at what felt like the dead of night. A wicked alarm at the foot of my bed came all-too-early: 6 AM to ensure enough time to make room in my bladder for a prescribed 32 ounces of water one hour prior to my ultrasound appointment. I scheduled the appointment for 8 AM on the first Monday of February after five weeks of trying and failing to secure an appointment altogether.

And not for lack of trying!

I tried two weeks ago as a walk-in at the hospital only to be swiftly told I needed to “call ahead for something like that.” My desperate search for a spot in its parking garage constituted the majority of my time on SMH premises that morning — by a long while. As I walked from the building back to my vehicle, I called the number on the pre-highlighted slip to schedule something like that and the woman inside the phone was anything but patient; perhaps she had, at 7:21am, struggled with her day. She bluntly explained that the lab order would need to be signed

by a doctor,

that the signature of the

nurse practitioner

with whom I had been working would not suffice.

As if I had never left, I sat in my warm car again and wished her a great day and hung up, glad to be off the phone with the grumpy lady. Having only started my attempt nine minutes prior, I congratulated myself for trying and resolved to move the task and its bulleted list of reminders in my phone to the next week.

And that next week became two weeks from then which is today as the radiologist I called last week told me that I mistakenly uploaded the bloodwork form — one which by the way I addressed much more swiftly than this ultrasound one, thank you very much.

I also fainted for that one.

Is it silly to hope that they find something in all these tests? It’s not that I’m hoping for something terrible in my tummy. It’s just that one fallacy — the “I’ve come too far for it to have all been for nothing” one.

I just hope they find something is all I’m saying!

Quite a few architects and designers have made their way into my orbit recently. This has unlocked an interest in me; when I this morning slid my Explorer at exactly 7:44 AM between the two lines at the end of my Maps navigation, I noticed my disdain for the mundane anonymity of the office suites attached to the parking lot. What era of architecture characterizes America at the moment? Is architecture the study that deserves the brunt of my disgust? Urban planning? I got on the highway to be here. I want to be somewhere beautiful, somewhere thoughtful, somewhere with cohesion; these neighboring businesses share nothing aside from a wall and roof.

My waiting room buddy, pleasantly surprised at the low rate of her co-pay, was frustrated at the temperature inside the office building. I, pissed off at my accurately predicted cost, was bursting to pee as I tapped my card. The printed sign taped onto the sneeze guard between myself and the cheerfully professional receptionist who wore a headset with a microphone requested that its reader “please use the bathroom before your appointment;” the next line, in a smaller font and between parentheses were the words “unless you’ve been instructed specifically not to empty your bladder before your appointment.”

That one was for me.

I sat and bounced my legs. The woman who collected me from the waiting room was the same woman who arrived quite a bit later than I did. As I bounced and bounced and bounced and waited as she prepared herself for another day at the office.

Her minimal eye contact as she introduced herself — I don’t remember her name, now that I think of it — led me to predict, correctly, that it was her who would be going

inside me

today.

I reclined on a parchment-lined table as instructed, fully clothed and fully confused at how exactly this is going to work…

She asked me to unzip my pants. She pressed on my lower abdomen. The lube was somehow a perfectly warm temperature. I stared at the blank ceiling in the low lighting of the room as the machine beeped intermittently, as no words were spoken between us. I tried to breathe deeply to keep from peeing as she pressed and slid and pressed.

I felt

disappointed? underwhelmed? I had mentally prepared for something more… intimate.

Was this it?

After more beeping and probing, the nameless woman said,

“OK, I’m going to have you empty your bladder and then come back for your transvaginal.”

Now we’re talking

I hovered above the toilet bowl, its seat still up from the night’s sanitization. As urine flowed out my body, I stared directly at a pile of purple and white polka-dotted gowns, freshly laundered and stiffly folded.

I came out, certain the young woman had forgotten to mention that I must strip and choose my locker. I asked,

“Must I put on one of those gowns?”

“No.”

She half-beckoned me back into the examination room, now with lights at full brightness. The table now displayed a cushion, foam and in the shape of a triangular prism, its wide side where my “bottom” would soon be. She told me, rather directly, to take off my pants and place a sheet over top of my thighs; this directive was one of the few accompanied by a useless mimicking gesture across her own lap.

She lowered that lights and as her wand entered me,

we did not speak.

My mind wandered to wondering about why a doctor’s offices aren’t more hospitable and about why they don’t play music in this room. I thought about the all of the opportunities for comic relief in the playlist alone. Are there codes of conduct that explicitly advise against making small talk during something like this, or does this person just not have any curiosities about my life? Do I have any about hers? Who decided the lights should be on dim instead of full bright? That person understands the vibes. Where is the intersection of sterile and comfortable? How does this shape my perspective of a neutral experience at the radiology center? Does that depend on whether they accept my insurance?

“OK. We’re all done. The doctor will have your results in 3 to 5 business days,”

she said as she pulled out.

“Oh,

nurse practitioner.“

I responded.

Until You Know Better

Mint

notice the difference between hard work and busy work

Great Artists Steal

I’m listening to The Wound Makes the Medicine by Pixie Lighthorse.

I’m also listening to This is Your Mind on Plants by Michael Pollan.