The Door Shuts with a Gentle Click: Navigating the Medical Room Encounter

The door shuts with a gentle click, enclosing me within a space that reeks of alcohol and cotton swabs. The illumination is excessively bright, streaming down from overhead fixtures that have endured the passage of time. The whole room is flooded with a wash of white light, casting no shadows aside from those that reside within me. A token image or two decorates the antiseptic walls, striving to divert my attention from the looming sense of dread.

An upright chair keeps me anchored as I await the arrival of the individual in the white coat. The wait only amplifies my anxiety, giving my mind additional moments to concoct all the potential mishaps.

I catch snippets of a dialogue in the outer corridor, with footsteps ebbing and flowing. A perfunctory thank you is expressed as people move in opposing directions. When will the steps arrive at my door?

The atmosphere is cool and stagnant in this room, yet my heart races. In front of me lies an examination table, its paper covering pulled taut, ready for its next user, possibly me. This table feels like an uncomfortable stage, presenting me or another person in this area for all to see. Is anything sacred these days?

Closed cabinets stand menacingly, their sharp, sterile tools concealed within. A blood pressure cuff lies idly awaiting. I do not anticipate mine to be low; it never is, for this is a place I would rather not be.

Finally, the physician enters after a knock on the door. He offers a brief greeting and a hasty smile as he settles into a chair positioned between me and a computer monitor. The hum of the computer and the clacking of the keyboard resonate in the quiet room. His gaze flits back and forth between me and the illuminated screen: question-answer, question-answer, click, click, silence. I can only half-hear what is discussed, as his eyes shift from the screen to charts and tests, back to me again, repeatedly.

This environment amplifies my every heartbeat; its pounding reverberates in my ears. Deep within my chest, anxiety has made itself at home like an unwanted visitor, hesitant to depart. I feel diminished and exposed here, as if I have forfeited my sense of identity, my sense of control.

At long last, it is time to depart, and an explanation is provided, but this room remains etched in my mind as I leave this space.

Here, in this compact rectangular chamber, the practice of medicine unfolds, but so does the cultivation of trust, or its gradual decay. What has transpired today?

“The reality of the other person is not what he reveals to you, but in what he cannot reveal to you. Therefore, if you would understand him, listen not to what he says but rather to what he does not say. All can hear, but only the sensitive can understand.” — Khalil Gibran

Michele Luckenbaugh is a patient advocate.