Simon Morgan is an Australian GP and medical educator. He is on X: @DrSimonMorgan
9.17AM. I’m here early. 13 minutes early, FFS. Like, it’s the dumbest thing I could have done, but here I am regardless. And the doctor is never on time anyway. I’m so stupid.
9.19AM. ‘The doctor wants you to come back to discuss your results’. That’s what the receptionist said when she called me. ‘Can you tell me anything more?’ I asked, my body instantly awash with bilious panic. ‘No, sorry’ she said, before scheduling the appointment for the following week. Thanks for that. Six days to stew.
9.22AM. They don’t get it. People worry. It’s so unfair.
9.24AM. It’s a strange word, ‘prostate’. From ancient Greek, apparently, meaning ‘to stand before’ – because of its position at the base of the bladder, Google said. (Not to be confused with prostrate, which is to ‘lay down before’. Kind of the opposite, which is weird.) I like to focus on the derivation of words, it can help take away their menace a bit. Though when I read that ‘cancer’ came from the Greek word for crab, it just made me more scared. Something to do with claws.
9.26AM. Everyone else in here looks so calm. I wonder if they are rehearsing their stories. I read once that when people go to the GP, they mentally rehearse their script, like an actor in a play. I’ve never really done this. I’ve also read that doctors interrupt their patients after 11 seconds or so to ask how long the pain has been there, or have they been travelling in Africa, or whether they can bend their thumb backwards to touch their forearm. So maybe there isn’t much point having a rehearsed spiel. Dunno.
9.28AM. P. S. A. Three innocuous letters. But when combined into an initialism (not an acronym, I remember my English teacher correcting me decades ago), three letters capable of causing great fear.
PSA, prostate specific antigen.
PSA, prostate specific anxiety.
PSA, palpitations sweats agitation.
PSA, please stay alright.
9.30AM. My scheduled appointment time. I should have waited in the car and listened to music and come in a minute ago. I reckon I’d be half as anxious as I am now. 25%, minimum.
Everyone else in here looks so calm. I wonder if they are rehearsing their stories
.9.33AM. Since the receptionist telephoned me a week ago, I’ve felt this grey cloud of dread hovering over me wherever I am. Like the forecast is always overcast, but this is a serious low pressure system. Why would they call me back if it wasn’t bad? I’ve been through all the possible reasons and it has to be bad news. These last few days have been especially rugged. At least I will find out soon.
9.35AM. The lady across from me has gone in with my GP. Hopefully I’m next. I should have asked how many ahead of me when I arrived, but now it’s too late. I would feel embarrassed asking now. I have a full house of anxieties – health, social, flying, obsessions – a bit like a collection of old vinyl records. The tablets have helped a good bit but make things feel a bit blah, even the good things. ‘Emotional blunting’, I read. I‘m an unsharpened pencil.
9.41AM. I am trying to think of relaxing things. I’m crap at this. And that makes me more anxious. How dumb is that.
9.42AM. 54321. The psychologist taught me this grounding exercise last week and I haven’t had a chance to use it yet in anger. As the expression goes. Or in panic, in my case. Hehe.
OK, what was it again? 54321. First, five things I can see.
1. The pot plant in the corner (one of those that, if fake, looks impressively real, but if actually a living specimen, looks disarmingly plastic)
2. The painting on the wall opposite (an amateurish rural landscape, all mustards and ochres and hopelessly lacking perspective. Probably a gift from a patient. Man, I wouldn’t hang it though.)
3. The fat paperback in the lap of the man next to me (a pang of loss as I remembered how much I used to enjoy reading. If the result is OK, I will start again. Promise.)
4. The fish tank humming away by the reception desk (I think ‘four different sounds I can hear’ is next, I could use the humming for that. Or was it three sounds, and four things I can touch? Need to look it up.)
5. The
Actually, the fish tank is stressing me out in a big way. The hyper-real flouro lights, the pathetic sunken ship, the murmuring filter. I feel just like one of the tiny striped fish, aimlessly swimming round and round the glass cage of this imminent appointment.
9.47AM. She’s 17 minutes late. And I’ve been here half an hour.
9.49AM. OK I’ll try again, this time with things I can hear.
1. The stupid fish tank filter
2. The TV, droning infomercials and
Oh I give up.
9.53AM. The thing that has worked best is journaling. This. I had never done much writing, but actually really enjoy it now. Trying to describe the feelings and make sense of the thoughts. And even poke a bit of fun at it. Putting it down in words makes it feel much less slippery and elusive.
9.59AM. How could a doctor be 29 minutes late for a 9.30 appointment? Where is she? This is unbear-
Deputy Editor’s note: The above story is reflective fiction and not the specific experience of a particular person.
Bravo! Your words took me on a wild ride through the emotional jungle. A great lesson for GPs who don’t always consider how waiting can be so intense, especially when waiting for results.
Props for turning “prostate” into a Greek history lesson and for the clever play on the PSA initialism. My favourite bit was “The pot plant in the corner (one of those that, if fake, looks impressively real, but if actually a living specimen, looks disarmingly plastic)” – beautifully put!
Here’s to hope your next doctor’s appointment is on “script” and right on time!
I read it in one breath…affecting. I will try to read and reflect on it with the trainees