Entering those white impersonal rooms,
antiseptic, paper sheet over the “bed”
where you will uncomfortably sit and
where you are therefore defined
as “the patient,”
do you shrink, fade back, become as
colorless as the walls?
Are these rooms meant
to make you feel small?
They are clearly not intended
for your comfort or reassurance.
They are designed to inform you
that you are to be treated,
dictated to, or put in your place.
If your practitioner is compassionate
and willing to see you as a person
(a rarity, it seems, these days),
you may receive assistance or even relief.
You may walk out reassured or hopeful.
Or, you could get attacked with
an unwished for diagnosis.
Your emotional reaction is
seldom their concern.
They are mechanics.
You are broken.
They will fix you.
In any case, you seldom leave feeling
like a partner, a collaborator
in your body’s wellness.
Today, I saw a nurse-practitioner.
She was efficient, thorough, pleasant.
She knew things.
She prescribed things.
And I left with tears welling up.
I left feeling like a problem,
like a ticking time bomb.
One number is the highest
she has ever seen.
Does it help me to know that?
My blood pressure,
never a problem,
was high, too.
And let’s not even talk about
my blood sugar.
On top of it all, none of
these invisible “problems”
was the reason for
my visit.
This is not a poem.
I know that.
It looks like a poem, but really
it is a rant.
I hate the medical establishment.
I am beholden to it.
Has it helped me?
Yes.
Has it harmed me?
Yes.
There must be a better way
than having to spend
the rest of my day recovering
some peace of mind and the knowing
that I am not a statistic.
There must be a better way
of healing.
My SoulCollage® card for Hygeia,
goddess of healing
