the new york doctor's office

I didn’t used to hate going to the doctor. I guess I never looked forward to it, but my current “issue” is a relatively new one. You see, I grew up in the suburbs, where doctor’s offices were immaculately clean and modern. They were staffed with well-groomed and coldly attractive receptionists who deftly operated multi-line phones and while entering data into spreadsheets. The waiting rooms always had the current issues of a variety of magazines and the temperature was always a little cold, which felt oddly comforting. All the doctor’s equipment and devices seemed to be the latest models – you just knew you were in good hands.

Having lived a few places since then, I’ve had some good doctors and some bad ones, but nothing has prepared me for the New York Doctor’s Office Experience. I just naturally assumed that New York would have the best doctor’s offices, in the same way that it has the best slice of pizza or the best hate crimes. But was I wrong.

A doctor’s office in New York is essentially an apartment. You have to be buzzed in, as if anyone would ever try to go to the doctor that doesn’t belong there. Maybe this is for people who don’t have insurance, I don’t know. The receptionist will remind you of your elementary school secretary or your great aunt. Her blouse will most likely be stained and her hair will be a color that only occurs in fruit. Looking around, you will actually wonder if you are in your great aunt’s apartment, as most of the furniture will be older than you. Taking a seat on a sagging couch that was once a brighter shade of lime, you will glance at the dusty end table to your right and see a dog-eared Time Magazine announcing Bill Clinton as “Man of the Year.” Reading about the dot com boom, you will try to ignore the sounds of the receptionist fumbling with the rotary dial phone.

Eventually you will be called into an examining room that would be perfectly adequate in a developing nation. Walls with chipped paint and a floor in need of a good sweeping might not be health hazards, but they are surely not comforting. Glancing around at the tools and equipment, you will start to panic (don’t get me wrong – I love old vinyl and certain fashion trends from the sixties, but I like my syringes and stethoscopes modern). At this point the doctor will come in, shake your hand and comment on your jumpiness and short breaths.

See, I’ve been having minor chest pain for the last couple of days, which is probably nothing, but regardless, I should have myself checked out. But I really, really don’t like going to the doctor. And don’t even get me started on hospitals. While I was writing this post I got a call from my current doctor’s office about the appointment I made for today. Apparently the doctor is home sick and I’ll have to reschedule. I don’t blame him.