Essays, Chapbooks, Contests...Etcetera
BETTE ANN MOSKOWITZ:
Award-Winning Author & Blogger
Award-Winning Author & Blogger
Notes in the Doctor's Office, Part I
November 4, 2019: Vinegar Mother
November 4, 2019: Vinegar Mother
By Bette Ann Moskowitz
Clipboard. Pen on a short leash, attached on the right side and I am a lefty. Questionnaire. To be answered by writing between extremely narrow lines, like a right-handed calligrapher with tiny fingers.
Questions. Do I smoke? Do I drink? Am I pregnant? Do I remember that far back? Should I still list my tonsillectomy under surgeries or is there an expiration date beyond which this information is irrelevant?
Someone two seats away is sneezing. I turn my head away, trying to inhabit the spot of empty air least likely to carry germs. I think I see the germs dancing up there.
A nurse opens the inner door and calls out someone’s name. It is the sneezer. I cover my face as he walks past.
I don’t know if I like the fact that the nurse uses the patient’s first name. It is an unwarranted familiarity. But then I realize it is because of the privacy laws, so no one knows his last name.
Another nurse comes and calls out another name. Wasn’t I here before that person?
Why did I leave my newspaper in the car? I meant to bring it in. If I am not called in another minute, I will go out to the car and get it. I would go now, but I am afraid I will miss being called.
I should have gone a minute ago. Now it is too late. Is it? It is.
I should have gone a minute ago. Now it is too late.
I should have gone a minute ago. Now it is…was that my name? How could someone mispronounce my name? It is so simple. Oh. That was Teddy, not Bette. I’ll just run out to the…
Oh. Too late. Finally!
The nurse weighs me and measures me and takes my blood pressure, and then goes over all the particulars of my history and current medications. I am in a nostalgic mood and remember when this is what the doctor did. But that was long ago, when he was still called “the doctor” instead of “the healthcare provider.” She tells me he will be in in just a moment. I look at my watch.
I hear a murmur of voices from the next room. He’s probably just finishing up in there. A moment means a minute. He’ll be in in another minute. I try to eavesdrop, hear the words being spoken in the next room, but it is just a hum. I review my appointments for next week on my smart phone. That takes about ninety seconds. Then I look back at my appointments since June. Another ninety seconds. I read the labels on all the jars on the exam room counter. Then I read them backwards. The voices next door have gone silent. There are no sounds in the hallway. Why did I leave my newspaper in the car? If he does not come in in another minute, I will run out and get it.
I feel like I am sliding off the butcher’s paper of the examining table, so I dismount and sit down on the doctor’s little stool. I notice the peeling green paint on the side of the room I never get to see when I am sitting on the examining table. I check my watch. It has been a while. Maybe I should check outside. It was a late appointment. Maybe they have all gone home? I remember once when I was in an eye doctor’s office and they put drops in my eyes and then forgot about me. Which reminds me of my brother-in-law’s classic eye doctor story, when he got so impatient with his examination, with the doctor switching lenses and asking him, “How about now?” “How about now?” When he couldn’t tell the difference between one lens and the other he said, “Fine, fine,” and then when the glasses were made up, he couldn’t see. I was in the middle of laughing out loud at that, when the door burst open. It was the nurse. “How are we doing?” she said, as if I were in the process of something, instead of just waiting for her boss. “Fine, fine,” I said, echoing my brother-in-law. I was not fine.
They should have left me outside in the waiting room. They move you from the waiting room to the examining room so you can think you are making progress. But you are still waiting. I look at my watch. It is half an hour since I progressed.
I dig around in my bag and find my notebook. I dig around and find a pen. I begin writing: Notes in the doctor’s office.
A little knock on the door, and then the provider comes in. “Hello!” he booms.
I hold up my finger for him to wait. I must finish this sentence.
Clipboard. Pen on a short leash, attached on the right side and I am a lefty. Questionnaire. To be answered by writing between extremely narrow lines, like a right-handed calligrapher with tiny fingers.
Questions. Do I smoke? Do I drink? Am I pregnant? Do I remember that far back? Should I still list my tonsillectomy under surgeries or is there an expiration date beyond which this information is irrelevant?
Someone two seats away is sneezing. I turn my head away, trying to inhabit the spot of empty air least likely to carry germs. I think I see the germs dancing up there.
A nurse opens the inner door and calls out someone’s name. It is the sneezer. I cover my face as he walks past.
I don’t know if I like the fact that the nurse uses the patient’s first name. It is an unwarranted familiarity. But then I realize it is because of the privacy laws, so no one knows his last name.
Another nurse comes and calls out another name. Wasn’t I here before that person?
Why did I leave my newspaper in the car? I meant to bring it in. If I am not called in another minute, I will go out to the car and get it. I would go now, but I am afraid I will miss being called.
I should have gone a minute ago. Now it is too late. Is it? It is.
I should have gone a minute ago. Now it is too late.
I should have gone a minute ago. Now it is…was that my name? How could someone mispronounce my name? It is so simple. Oh. That was Teddy, not Bette. I’ll just run out to the…
Oh. Too late. Finally!
The nurse weighs me and measures me and takes my blood pressure, and then goes over all the particulars of my history and current medications. I am in a nostalgic mood and remember when this is what the doctor did. But that was long ago, when he was still called “the doctor” instead of “the healthcare provider.” She tells me he will be in in just a moment. I look at my watch.
I hear a murmur of voices from the next room. He’s probably just finishing up in there. A moment means a minute. He’ll be in in another minute. I try to eavesdrop, hear the words being spoken in the next room, but it is just a hum. I review my appointments for next week on my smart phone. That takes about ninety seconds. Then I look back at my appointments since June. Another ninety seconds. I read the labels on all the jars on the exam room counter. Then I read them backwards. The voices next door have gone silent. There are no sounds in the hallway. Why did I leave my newspaper in the car? If he does not come in in another minute, I will run out and get it.
I feel like I am sliding off the butcher’s paper of the examining table, so I dismount and sit down on the doctor’s little stool. I notice the peeling green paint on the side of the room I never get to see when I am sitting on the examining table. I check my watch. It has been a while. Maybe I should check outside. It was a late appointment. Maybe they have all gone home? I remember once when I was in an eye doctor’s office and they put drops in my eyes and then forgot about me. Which reminds me of my brother-in-law’s classic eye doctor story, when he got so impatient with his examination, with the doctor switching lenses and asking him, “How about now?” “How about now?” When he couldn’t tell the difference between one lens and the other he said, “Fine, fine,” and then when the glasses were made up, he couldn’t see. I was in the middle of laughing out loud at that, when the door burst open. It was the nurse. “How are we doing?” she said, as if I were in the process of something, instead of just waiting for her boss. “Fine, fine,” I said, echoing my brother-in-law. I was not fine.
They should have left me outside in the waiting room. They move you from the waiting room to the examining room so you can think you are making progress. But you are still waiting. I look at my watch. It is half an hour since I progressed.
I dig around in my bag and find my notebook. I dig around and find a pen. I begin writing: Notes in the doctor’s office.
A little knock on the door, and then the provider comes in. “Hello!” he booms.
I hold up my finger for him to wait. I must finish this sentence.
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Bette Ann Moskowitz is an award-winning author and teacher born in Bronx, N.Y. She wrote her first book – a mystery - in a school notebook at the age of nine. A “true daughter” of the City University of New York (bachelor’s from Hunter College and master’s from Queens College), Bette has an eclectic resume, including writing publicity for Decca Records, songs that garnered modest royalties, plays (one of which was granted an audition for Broadway), stand-up comic routines, op-eds and essays for The New York Times.
The published essay above is from her blog, Vinegar Mother, which she posts every Monday. It is gaining readers by the tens. They say it is a good way to start out their week with a smile. The Sanctuary Team encourages readers to take a look! Bette has written several books, both fiction and non-fiction. Her memoir Do I Know You? A Family’s Journey through Aging and Alzheimer’s won a New York State Foundation for the Arts Fellowship for Literary Non-fiction and The Room at the End of the Hall: An Ombudsman’s Notebook was a Finalist in the same category. Her latest non-fiction book, Finishing Up, a personal look at the very public subject of aging and ageism in America will be published by Dio Press in 2020. She entered the digital publishing world with SANCTUARY and has continued with publication (and podcast) of her short story, “Hippopotamus” at Sunlitfiction.com. Note: Bette was a 2017 Featured Artist in Sanctuary. |
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