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I leave work early and head over to the walk-in clinic. Like everything else here in Asheville, even the clinic is quaint and clean, and the people are overly friendly. I check in and then sit and wait to be seen.
“How long have these symptoms been going on?” the doctor asks when I get into a room.
I’m terrible at keeping track at things so I guestimate.
“A couple of weeks, I guess?”
“Any other symptoms beside the nausea and vomiting?”
I try to think.
“Not really. I’m just more tired than usual but I suppose that’s because I’ve been sick. I’ve been going to bed super early lately andtrulynot wanting to get out of bed in the morning.” I laugh a little, as if the fatigue is more behavioral than it is a physical symptom of anything. But the doctor doesn’t seem to find the humor in it.
“Last menstrual cycle?”
Ireallyneed to sit and think about that one since I never keep track.
“Uh, I’m not really sure. Probably a month ago? It’s probably getting ready to rear its ugly head again.”
He looks at me over the bridge of his nose in a rather condescending way that makes me uncomfortable. Even here, doctors have terrible bedside manners, at leastthis one does.
He stands up and walks over to me and does a quick exam. He checks vitals, listens to my heart and lungs, and does all the regular routine things that doctors do which usually seems pointless to me. I mean, why look at my eyes and up my nose if I am here complaining of stomach symptoms?
“Let’s run a few tests to see what’s going on,” he says as he jots down a few notes on his laptop. He reaches into a drawer, pulls out a pee cup and then hands me a small paper with a bloodwork order on it.
“The nurse will take the cup once you’ve filled it, and then she’ll do your bloodwork too.”
“What is all of this testing for?” I ask. Thinking about medical stuff always makes me feel queasy and nervous.
“We’re going to start by ruling a few things out and then we’ll take it from there,” he says as if I should just go do what he says without further questioning.
Begrudgingly, I go pee in the cup and let the nurse draw my blood and then I get ready to go back out to the receptionist to check out.
“Where are you going?” the nurse calls after me.
“Uh, I was going to pay my bill and leave. Don’t you guys just call with the results of the bloodwork and stuff?”
“Yes, but you might as well wait and see the results of the urine tests before you leave.”
I shrug and sit down to wait. I don’t bother to ask what the urinalysis will show since I’m pretty sure I don’t have a UTI or kidney infection. Neither of those things would be making me throw up and feel so tired and shitty.
When the nurse comes back around the corner after a little while, she smiles broadly at me and hands me a paper that looks like a referral.
“What’s this?” I ask as I look down and see the name of another doctor written on the paper, a female doctor.
“You’re being referred to Doctor Gideon,” she beams. “Congratulations.”
“Congratulations for being referred to a different doctor?” I ask in complete confusion.
“Don’t you know who Dr. Gideon is?” she asks.
“No, I’m still fairly new in town. Is she a celebrity or something?”
“No, no, dear,” she says as she hugs me around the shoulder as if we are suddenly good friends. “Doctor Gideon is an obstetrician.You’re pregnant.”
“What?” Instant panic sets in. “That’s impossible. Do the test again, it has to be wrong. Isn’t there such a thing as a false positive?”
“Well, yes, there is,” the nurse says, suddenly looking like someone popped her balloon with a sewing needle. “But it’s uncommon. The urine test we use is very accurate.”
