Novel Excerpt - Doctor’s Office

“The doctor will see you now.” 

When I stand up, my legs wobble like they’ve forgotten how to hold me. I take a deep, shaky breath and follow the nurse through the closed door. The room greets me with heat—sticky and suffocating. It’s far warmer than it should be. She gestures toward the exam table, a silent command to sit. 

“I’m just going to take your vitals before the doctor comes in,” she says, barely looking at me as she glides the thermometer across my forehead. “Do you always run hot?” 

Her question catches me off guard. “Like, am I usually angry?” 

She smiles. “Your temp is 99. Do you normally have a higher temp?” 

“Oh,” I say, my cheeks burning. “I’m not sure. I think I’m just nervous.” 

She slides my shirt sleeve up and velcros the blood pressure cuff to my bicep. “Hey, you’re okay. A lot of people get nervous when they see a doctor. It’s called white-coat syndrome. Totally normal. Your blood pressure is high, too.”

I hate this. I hate all of it. The small talk. The wax paper sticking to the back of my legs as they sweat through my jeans. My heart thundering in my chest like it’s trying to break free. This should be easy. It shouldn’t be this hard.

“Okay, she’ll be right in,” she says and disappears through the doorway, softly closing the door behind her.

There aren’t any windows in this room. Not that I was looking to escape through one, but I’d like to have the option nonetheless. The air is thick and stifling, an unsettling contrast to the cool, sterile atmosphere I expect in a doctor’s office. I imagine it should feel like stepping into a walk-in freezer, all stainless steel and crisp air. At least I’m not stripped down to my underwear with a paper gown draped over my shoulders. 

This wait is excruciating. Every nerve ending on my scalp is alive and prickling. When I called to schedule this appointment, the receptionist asked why I needed to see the doctor. I told her I was struggling with anxiety and wanted to discuss my options. Don’t they know this is exactly the type of thing that will cause an anxious person to spiral? At least give me a damn window.

A knock at the door startles me, the sound sharp and unexpected, even though I was waiting for it. Without waiting for a response, the doctor opens the door and wafts into the room as the soft scent of peonies fills the air. 

“Ms. Owens, hello!” she sings, her voice unnervingly cheerful, as she sets her laptop down on the sink counter, her heels clicking with every step. She squints at the screen. “So, we are here for anxiety today?” 

She looks over at me as she swivels a cushioned stool around the counter and sits down, her laptop resting on her knees. She’s wearing a periwinkle blouse tucked haphazardly into a black pencil skirt and I’m struck by the impractical kitten heels that rest on her calloused feet. 

“Yes, anxiety,” I say slowly, trying to steady my voice. Why do I feel like I’m going to cry?

She stops typing and looks at me, her head tilted. “Are you okay? Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?” 

“No, yeah, I’m fine. Sorry,” I say. But I’m not fine. That’s why I’m here, right?

She runs her finger over the mousepad and squints at the screen again. “Here we go. Over the last two weeks, how often have you been bothered by any of the following problems?” she reads. “Feeling nervous, anxious, or on edge? Not at all, several days, more than half the days, nearly every day.” 

I clear my throat before answering. “Every day.”

She makes a note and continues. “Not being able to stop or control worrying? Not at all, several days, more than half the days, nearly every day.” 

“Every day.” 

“Trouble relaxing?”

I think about every time I ride the subway or the bus and watch the passengers around me on the verge of sleep as I stand there on the verge of a panic attack.

“Every day.” 

“Feeling afraid as if something awful might happen?” 

I close my eyes. Feeling afraid that I’m going to pass out, every day. Imagining I have a tumor that’s lurking in my brain, waiting to kill me in my sleep. Every day. Convincing myself I’m having a heart attack every time my heart pounds uncontrollably in my chest. 

“Every day,” I say as tears spring to my eyes. I try to blink them away but they come anyway, falling mercilessly down my cheeks and onto the wax paper beneath me like rain tapping on a metal roof. 

The doctor closes her laptop and puts it on the counter. She grabs a box of tissues and rolls herself toward me on the stool, her heels clacking beneath her. She hands me a tissue, then gently places her hand on my knees, her touch grounding in its softness. 

“You’re going to be okay. I don’t know if you have heard that lately, but I want you to know that you are going to be okay.” Something about how she’s looking at me so intently makes me cry even harder. I can’t stop the sobs that convulse through me, shaking my shoulders as my mouth peels back into a distorted grin. “We have a lot of options. A lot of things we can try, okay?” She takes a tissue from the box in my hands and dabs at my eyes. 

 I nod, the urge to collapse into her overwhelming. I want to let everything spill—my worries, my fears—onto her. But I don’t. “I’m glad you came today,” she says softly. “You don’t have to live like this.” 

I nod again, not quite able to form actual words. She squeezes my thigh before scooting back to the counter and opening her computer. 

“Alright, let’s get you better,” she says, her voice steady and sure. She is so matter-of-fact that I almost believe her. 

“Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”