Doctor’s Appointment
by Shelley Kim
Despite the fact that it’s in the middle of nowhere, the waiting room is pretty nice. The AC is on and humming to the tunes of the radio singing empty songs from a hollow plastic heart. Curtains spill from the windows like a tall, overturned glass of milk. They’re closed, and the only light in the room comes from a sleek lamp seated on a chrome and glass table. Overall, the room has a warm, soft, glowing sort of feeling. The only complaint I have is that the room smells of watered-down blood. It’s a sharp, metal, odor. It makes me apprehensive. I stare at the abandoned receptionist’s window. Maybe it’s abandoned for a reason.
I wait.
I glance over the shiny magazines splayed out on the chrome table. None of them interest me.
I wait.
I play a piano sonata of nervous finger drumming on the arm of the chair.
I wait.
I pick at a loose thread on the edge of the seat. I probably would have picked apart the whole chair, waiting, but at that moment the receptionist appears in an instant, as if she had been there the whole time and I had never noticed until now.
She perches herself at the window and smooths herself down. “Good afternoon!” she chirps, and flashes a smile so perfect and brilliant she could be in a toothpaste ad. I wonder how many times she’s practiced it in front of a mirror, over and over until her cheeks hurt.
“Afternoon,” I say, slowly and carefully.
Her smile never falters. “The doctor will see you now,” she sings, gesturing to the door next to the window.
“Okay.” I stay seated. There’s a momentary stare-off between me and the receptionist, who is smiling and waiting as if she was the one who had been patiently waiting, waiting, waiting there for all eternity and I was the one who had just appeared.
I get up and go through the door to the doctor’s office. The receptionist is still smiling as I close the door.
The office is empty. It looks like I have to wait some more. I sit on the examination room, a bit disgruntled.
No sooner have I finished sitting on the paper spread over the table does the doctor enter.
He saunters in, white coat flaring out behind him like a fanfare, wiry glasses flashing so often that I can’t tell what his eyes look like. Gray is making an inexorable crawl through his hair, but nothing about his swishy actions suggest age. Especially his grin. It reminds me of a python swallowing its prey, jaw extending wider and wider into uncanniness and distended hunger.
“Hello!” he smiles, and his glasses flash again. His voice is stained with an accent I can’t quite place my finger on. “You’re here for your appointment!” It’s not a question.
I don’t answer.
“Excellent timing! The results of your physical just came in!”
I don’t recall ever having a physical.
“And I, well…” The doctor’s grin flickers into an outright frown. “I must say that your results are worse than I have ever feared.” He shakes his head in pity. “It is no good. In fact, it’s very bad.”
“What is it?”
“Yes, well,” he says, adjusting his glasses, which flash again, “I’m afraid that you’re in perfect health.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
His frown deepens, and the next flash of his glasses is colder and darker. “Bad? Of course it’s bad!” he cries, and waves about a clipboard I never realized he was holding. “It means there’s nothing wrong with you! You have no flaws, no defects, no maladies, no tragedies, no…” He rambles on and on. “To the medically uneducated-” and he snorts the last part, “-that may seem advantageous. But ultimately it leaves you empty and deprived.” He shakes his head, and his glasses flash yet again. “Very bad,” he repeats.
“You see, since you have nothing wrong with you, you have nothing to work for in life. Nothing to overcome, nothing to improve. You don’t have any goals, or insight, or anything to reflect upon so that you can improve anything wrong with you. Which you don’t have.
“It’s a terrible lifestyle. Terrible,” and he shakes his head again. “I’m afraid that if you continue to live this way, you’ll probably never die.”
“I…” I go slack-jawed, staring at this sad old doctor, not sure how to react. “What should I do?”
At this question the doctor perks up again, and that python grin stretches across his face again.
“I would recommend leading a more active life.” He flips through a few pages on his clipboard. “You ought to stop trying to be so safe. Go get hurt; it doesn’t matter whether it’s physically or mentally. Form some strong opinions that are politically incorrect, and disagree with other people. Do something that makes you feel the need to wash your hands too often. Find the need to be noble or heroic. Make mistakes and regret them at least three times a week, and by the end of the year I want you to have suffered a broken heart.
“You see, you shan’t just do everything comfortably. There are hurtful things in the world, but it’s so much better to learn to put up with them than to avoid them forever and say empty. You have the right to suffer, to feel unhappy, to grown old and ugly, to feel hunger and pain and fear and the uncertainty of what may happen tomorrow. So go out into the world and enjoy it.
“With any luck, your condition will be much more interesting by the next appointment, and I’ll have something to work with.” The doctor scrawls something down on the clipboard in that illegible handwriting that all doctors seem to have. “But feel free to drop by any time before then if you still feel deficient.”
“Okay, well, thank-“
“Yes, now, I’m very busy, and I have other patients to talk with. Have a lovely day, and I’ll see you next time we meet.” At this he cocks himself up like a pistol and whisks himself out of the room, coat fluttering behind him. I’m left alone in the office, still sitting on the table.
I stay there for a while, staring at the floor.
I get up and walk out of the office, through the waiting room that smells of diluted blood and the eternally smiling receptionist, who would be smiling even at the end of the world, and she chirps a goodbye as I exit.
The sun is too hot and the world too bright, but for a long time I stand there, basking in the right to suffer and the newfound uncertainty of how to live and what to live for. I stand there for a long, long, time, needing everything, knowing nothing, doubting the unknown future laid out before me.
by Shelley Kim
Despite the fact that it’s in the middle of nowhere, the waiting room is pretty nice. The AC is on and humming to the tunes of the radio singing empty songs from a hollow plastic heart. Curtains spill from the windows like a tall, overturned glass of milk. They’re closed, and the only light in the room comes from a sleek lamp seated on a chrome and glass table. Overall, the room has a warm, soft, glowing sort of feeling. The only complaint I have is that the room smells of watered-down blood. It’s a sharp, metal, odor. It makes me apprehensive. I stare at the abandoned receptionist’s window. Maybe it’s abandoned for a reason.
I wait.
I glance over the shiny magazines splayed out on the chrome table. None of them interest me.
I wait.
I play a piano sonata of nervous finger drumming on the arm of the chair.
I wait.
I pick at a loose thread on the edge of the seat. I probably would have picked apart the whole chair, waiting, but at that moment the receptionist appears in an instant, as if she had been there the whole time and I had never noticed until now.
She perches herself at the window and smooths herself down. “Good afternoon!” she chirps, and flashes a smile so perfect and brilliant she could be in a toothpaste ad. I wonder how many times she’s practiced it in front of a mirror, over and over until her cheeks hurt.
“Afternoon,” I say, slowly and carefully.
Her smile never falters. “The doctor will see you now,” she sings, gesturing to the door next to the window.
“Okay.” I stay seated. There’s a momentary stare-off between me and the receptionist, who is smiling and waiting as if she was the one who had been patiently waiting, waiting, waiting there for all eternity and I was the one who had just appeared.
I get up and go through the door to the doctor’s office. The receptionist is still smiling as I close the door.
The office is empty. It looks like I have to wait some more. I sit on the examination room, a bit disgruntled.
No sooner have I finished sitting on the paper spread over the table does the doctor enter.
He saunters in, white coat flaring out behind him like a fanfare, wiry glasses flashing so often that I can’t tell what his eyes look like. Gray is making an inexorable crawl through his hair, but nothing about his swishy actions suggest age. Especially his grin. It reminds me of a python swallowing its prey, jaw extending wider and wider into uncanniness and distended hunger.
“Hello!” he smiles, and his glasses flash again. His voice is stained with an accent I can’t quite place my finger on. “You’re here for your appointment!” It’s not a question.
I don’t answer.
“Excellent timing! The results of your physical just came in!”
I don’t recall ever having a physical.
“And I, well…” The doctor’s grin flickers into an outright frown. “I must say that your results are worse than I have ever feared.” He shakes his head in pity. “It is no good. In fact, it’s very bad.”
“What is it?”
“Yes, well,” he says, adjusting his glasses, which flash again, “I’m afraid that you’re in perfect health.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
His frown deepens, and the next flash of his glasses is colder and darker. “Bad? Of course it’s bad!” he cries, and waves about a clipboard I never realized he was holding. “It means there’s nothing wrong with you! You have no flaws, no defects, no maladies, no tragedies, no…” He rambles on and on. “To the medically uneducated-” and he snorts the last part, “-that may seem advantageous. But ultimately it leaves you empty and deprived.” He shakes his head, and his glasses flash yet again. “Very bad,” he repeats.
“You see, since you have nothing wrong with you, you have nothing to work for in life. Nothing to overcome, nothing to improve. You don’t have any goals, or insight, or anything to reflect upon so that you can improve anything wrong with you. Which you don’t have.
“It’s a terrible lifestyle. Terrible,” and he shakes his head again. “I’m afraid that if you continue to live this way, you’ll probably never die.”
“I…” I go slack-jawed, staring at this sad old doctor, not sure how to react. “What should I do?”
At this question the doctor perks up again, and that python grin stretches across his face again.
“I would recommend leading a more active life.” He flips through a few pages on his clipboard. “You ought to stop trying to be so safe. Go get hurt; it doesn’t matter whether it’s physically or mentally. Form some strong opinions that are politically incorrect, and disagree with other people. Do something that makes you feel the need to wash your hands too often. Find the need to be noble or heroic. Make mistakes and regret them at least three times a week, and by the end of the year I want you to have suffered a broken heart.
“You see, you shan’t just do everything comfortably. There are hurtful things in the world, but it’s so much better to learn to put up with them than to avoid them forever and say empty. You have the right to suffer, to feel unhappy, to grown old and ugly, to feel hunger and pain and fear and the uncertainty of what may happen tomorrow. So go out into the world and enjoy it.
“With any luck, your condition will be much more interesting by the next appointment, and I’ll have something to work with.” The doctor scrawls something down on the clipboard in that illegible handwriting that all doctors seem to have. “But feel free to drop by any time before then if you still feel deficient.”
“Okay, well, thank-“
“Yes, now, I’m very busy, and I have other patients to talk with. Have a lovely day, and I’ll see you next time we meet.” At this he cocks himself up like a pistol and whisks himself out of the room, coat fluttering behind him. I’m left alone in the office, still sitting on the table.
I stay there for a while, staring at the floor.
I get up and walk out of the office, through the waiting room that smells of diluted blood and the eternally smiling receptionist, who would be smiling even at the end of the world, and she chirps a goodbye as I exit.
The sun is too hot and the world too bright, but for a long time I stand there, basking in the right to suffer and the newfound uncertainty of how to live and what to live for. I stand there for a long, long, time, needing everything, knowing nothing, doubting the unknown future laid out before me.