{Another in a series about “room.” Forty days=forty rooms. Maybe.}

By pure luck, this elderly writer has medical consults three days in a row. That got me thinking about doctors’ offices and examination rooms. Of course, while we probably spend more time in waiting rooms than in the actual presence of the physician in the examination room, that smaller and more private room is far more interesting to write about.

For one thing, it’s scarier. That’s why our blood pressure goes up as we wait for the grand entrance of the one in charge. The white coat syndrome? It’s real. I found this on the website of the Cleveland Clinic, so it has to be accurate: If you have white coat hypertension, you may feel nervous when you get to your healthcare provider’s office. This nervous feeling may get worse when you go into the exam room and get a blood pressure measurement. Routine check up, blood draw, test results? No matter. And little reason for the nurse to take your blood pressure at that point. It won’t be accurate.

You’ve already been waiting for a time in what I call the “sick room” with all those other people seeking medical attention. Now, you’ve been called into your own little space for “vitals” and some preliminary questioning before the actual physician enters. Am I safe at home? What meds are you taking? (Good grief! I took fifteen minutes to write it all down on the clipboard before I came in here. Don’t you people share?) All that is kind of like the opening act at a concert that leads to the main event. Except no lasers and smoke machines. The nurse exits, and you wait. Maybe there’s time to check your Facebook or email. Or, you just check out the room itself.

Yesterday I noticed two simple chairs, a short stool with wheels, a computer, some pictures relating to the doc’s specialty (so he/she can point out where your problem lies), a counter with various routine medical supplies, a receptacle for disposing of truly dangerous stuff like used gloves and syringes, and the examination table, covered in that roll of paper you assume (hope!) they change between patients. And the sink. On the wall over that table is a sign warning that children shouldn’t be left alone on the table. Oh, that never occurred to me, but it did to the lawyers.

In another such room I will occupy this week, there will be helpful models of anatomical bits, one “normal” and one or two signalling problems. You’ve probably seen illustrative posters of muscles and arteries and body parts on those four walls surrounding you as you wait for the doctor. Better to check email. Sometimes you’ll see diplomas and certificates, as if to prove the person treating you is qualified to do so. Except one time the diploma belonged to long-retired doc who didn’t bother taking it home.

Much of my time in these rooms is focused on check-ups. Just tracking how I’m doing with BP, skin, PSA levels, the shoulder issue. Once those physicians have finished their exams and answered the questions I remembered to ask, my blood pressure goes down, I follow the arrows to the exit, maybe make another appointment for the magic six month window, and head for the car.

I’m treating this lightly, I know. But sometimes once the main event arrives, the news is far from routine. That one visit to the examination room leads to another and another and maybe to the hospital eventually. I once got a troubling result from a routine blood test, and my doctor (my “PCP”) referred me to an oncologist for further testing. Frightening. A couple of weeks later, after a further test, Joan and I nervously moved from the waiting room to the exam room. The specialist entered. He wore a sport coat. He explained that if there had been a serious “issue,” he’d have come in dressed in a physician’s white coat. “But I have good news! All’s well.” Turns out that the initial blood test was an anomaly; there was some problem with the blood draw, maybe something with the test tube? Anyway, the doc sent us away and said he didn’t want to see us again. The car was full of sighs of relief and prayers of gratitude on the way home.

We’ve certainly spent lots of time in those small rooms, especially as we’ve aged. And we are blessed to have received better than average care, as well as insurance that has kept us both healthy and solvent. Not everyone has access to the good care we receive. All of us, dear reader, have to keep that in mind, and do what we can to make healthcare available and affordable to everyone.

Everyone.