I am late, as usual, but this time I am so late that way too much time has passed. I pick up the phone, and make my appointment to see my doctor at the hospital in NY, and am surprised that I can be seen in a few short weeks. My stomach has begun to twist and turn in the quiet manner of a restless sleep.
Today is finally come, and I arrive way too early for the train to New York. A line forms at the parking meter machine, and a man complains about how much he hates Poughkeepsie, and I say, "Well, I like it here." and he says, "I do too, I just hate the train station."
I board the train, and sit down by myself. My mother wanted to come with me, but I told her, "No, I am nervous, and you make me more nervous." and she doesn't say anything, just nods her head.
How many years ago was it that I endured the tests and surgery? I don't like to visit that time. It's too painful.
I don't like to think about annual check ups. It's too stressful. I find it easier to be by myself. But the truth is, when I was sick, it was impossible to be by myself. The lack of distraction could leave me on the bed in a heap of fear. Better to be around someone.
Now, I like the solitude. It's easier to stuff the fears and focus on reading the newspaper or reading a book. I look up, and the train has arrived.
The walk uptown is cold; I count the blocks, only three more, only two more, then, I am walking in and up the elevator.
I used to sit in the waiting room and try to guess which person was the one with it. If it was a man and a woman, that wouldn't be a challenge; this floor is for women. But I usually see mothers and daughters, I can tell that because they look like different versions of the same self. Afraid, brave, stoical, these women all share the same look. Mothers and daughters.
It's easy to spot me, I am the only one sitting on the couch, unafraid, with a twisted up stomach. And I think about my mother. I think she would like to be sitting here with me. I think about a man who calls me Honey.. He hasn't called or asked me about going to the hospital. Is that his fear, or does he just not care? Don't know, but it occurs to me that both my mother and he are more afraid than I am. I wonder, do they need me that much?
I look over at a distraught man sitting on a couch, his face cracks a little, and then my name is called.
Ah, I am now closer to getting out of here, forgetting about this visit for another year. I go into the examination room, and find that my blood pressure is excellent. My doctor walks in, we chat, and it's done, I can go home.
I walk down Lexington Avenue, I want to catch the next train back, and it's close to leaving time. I quickly check my clothes, my coat, my gloves, I touch my head. It feels as if I am missing something.
And then I remember, it's over, I feel free. I look at my reflection in a store window, and smile.