We walk a few doors down an adjacent hallway to where we were, and Dr. Goodman ushers me into an empty room and flicks on the light.

“How’s the temperature in here for you? Comfortable?”

“The cooler the better for me. It’s fine,” I reply, surveying the room quickly.

Of medium size, it also has floor to ceiling windows covering one whole wall, but unlike in the consultation room, these are covered by a solar panel. A counter lines one wall and houses a few prescription pads, some patient education trifolds, a bin of papers, a telephone, and a small collection of what look to be bottles of essential oils.

“Have a seat.” He gestures to a pair of chairs against the wall just inside the door, then hooks a foot under the counter to pull out a low stool on wheels for himself. I lower myself slowly onto the chair closest to the door and watch as he grabs a paper from the bin and starts checking things off.

As I watch him I wonder when, if ever, this became routine for him. Is he anticipating the exam to come, and the exposure of my body to his gaze, or is this just another day at the office for him? Somehow I can’t fathom that the repeated exposure and examination of strangers’ bodies could ever become routine. You always hear people say, ‘it’s not a big deal for them, they see naked bodies all the time. It’s just a big deal to you.’ I’m tempted to ask him but wouldn’t dare.

“I’m ordering some bloodwork to have drawn here at the beginning so that we may actually have some results to discuss by the time we’re finished here, okay?”

He reaches efficiently for the phone and punches in a four-digit extension, signing the lab orders as he waits for an answer. I look at his hands and find myself distracted by them. Again. A moment later he says quietly …

“We’re ready for you. Yup. Thanks.”

Two minutes later a nurse raps on the door and strides in, probably in her fifties, with a beautiful head of thick gray hair pulled back in a chignon. She’s slim and the picture of clinical efficiency in navy scrubs, the leg pockets stuffed with what must be indispensable nursing paraphernalia. A neon green lanyard hangs from her neck with an ID badge attached. She sports a lime green stethoscope that complements her lanyard, draped around her shoulders. She smiles as she holds out her hand toward the doctor in anticipation of taking his lab orders.

“Good morning, Ms. Mills. I’m Sarah, one of Dr. Goodman’s nurses.”

He hands her the orders with a smile. “Thanks Sarah.” Then, “Okay Ms. Mills, Sarah’s going to … “

“Please, call me Molly,” I interrupt, perhaps more abruptly than I’d intended. “I hear Ms. Mills and I’m constantly turning around looking for my mother.”

“As you wish,” Dr. Goodman says with a nod. “Sarah’s going to draw your labs, take some vitals, and get you prepped for your exam, okay Molly?” he says, standing to go.

On his way out the door I hear him ask Sarah to call Dr. Simmons’ office to check on the date of my last appointment, and to have them fax over any clinical summaries. Gulp. Sarah nods and assures him she’ll take care of it.

Before stepping out into the hallway, he places a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Try and relax. I’ll see you in a few minutes.” Then he exits the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

As I sit there having my blood drawn, I take in the rest of the room. The counter surfaces are covered with glass, and underneath one area I see a large colorful illustration of the human body, and next to it, a complicated looking reference table with dosing calculations for commonly prescribed drugs.

The focal point of the room is the exam table sitting at the center, padded in black vinyl and covered with a pristine strip of crisp white paper. It is configured like a chair at present, the back only slightly reclined and the leg extension tucked underneath. On the seat are two folded items: a gown and a flat cotton sheet. I close my eyes and try not to think about the state of undress I’m about to find myself in.

“I’m going to take your vital signs now, Ms. Mills. Can I slip this under your tongue please?”

After the thermometer goes into my mouth, Sarah checks my pulse and hooks me up to the electronic blood pressure and pulse ox monitor. She watches the monitor closely and looks concerned when she removes the cuff.

“I’m going to take a quick listen to your heart, okay?”

She removes her stethoscope quickly and listens for a few moments over my tricuspid area. She puts the stethoscope down on the counter and turns to face me.

“Are you feeling light-headed or anything, Ms. Mills?”

“You can call me Molly, it’s fine. What is it? Is my blood pressure high? That always happens when I come to the doctor, unfortunately.”

“Your BP isn’t too bad. It’s your heart rate that concerns me. Do you have a heart condition?”

“No. But I have dreadful anxiety, which is pretty much just as bad.”

“Seeing the doctor makes you anxious?”

No actually, it’s the doctor seeing me that makes me anxious.

Seriously though, is there really anyone who doesn’t get nervous before a physical? Unless you’re an exhibitionist, it’s not a pleasant experience.

“Yes, it always has. It’s a bit of a curse actually,” I chuckle, in a lame attempt to calm myself.

“Well, I get it. Nobody really likes physicals,” she concedes.

She grabs her stethoscope from the counter and swings it back around her neck as she rolls closer to me.

“You’re in very good hands with Dr. Goodman, Molly. I’ve worked with doctors for thirty years and haven’t seen many like him. He’s young, but he’s excellent. Does he know you’re anxious about the exam?”

“We talked about it briefly.”

“Good. You’ll do fine, then. Follow me.”

She gestures for me to come with her as she grabs the gown, guides me back to the bathroom, and flicks on the light.

“I’d suggest that you empty your bladder before you change. It makes the exam a bit more comfortable.” She smiles kindly and sets the gown down before grabbing the door handle to step out and give me some privacy.

“Everything comes off, gown ties at the back. There are some hangers in the wardrobe there for your clothes, and your purse will be secure there until you’re finished with the doctor, okay?”

My brain hasn’t processed anything beyond “everything comes off.” I’d hoped I might be spared this indignity, which is usually reserved for the gynecologist.

If I can’t stop thinking about his good looks, or his dreamy doctor disposition, or his beautiful hands, I will never be able to take my clothes off.

“No … panties?” I ask, my throat drying up.

“If you’re more comfortable leaving them for now that’s fine, but eventually they’ll have to come off. The new patient physical is a pretty thorough top to toe assessment.”

Dear God.

Sarah leaves me to stew, closing the door behind her. If my heart rate accelerated before, this news has surely sent it into the stratosphere.

There’s no running now. I unfold the pink gown with distaste. Quite similar to the ones at the gynecologist, it is cloth and of a slightly heavier material than your standard issue hospital gown. Sliding my arms through I cover up quickly and clasp the two snaps at the back of the gown.

I make my way back to the exam area, where Sarah motions for me to sit on the exam table and puts the half-folded sheet across my lap. The crinkling of the paper on the table triggers a vague, unsavory memory of the doctor appointments of my adolescence, and I shake my head to try and clear them away.

“Okay. I have some essential oil here that I’m going to put at your pulse points and I want you to take a nice deep breath, okay?”

So I guess I was right – those bottles on the counter were essential oils. If I weren’t so nervous I’d have taken more time to appreciate the patient-centeredness of having them here. It’s a nice touch. At this point I’d need a reefer to calm my nerves, but I’ll take whatever I can get.

I slow and steady my breathing as Sarah applies a lovely fragrance to each of my wrists, then on either side of my neck, and finally on the top of each foot. It smells heavenly, perhaps a blend of chamomile and peppermint, but doesn’t have the immediate calming effect that I was hoping for.

“How’s that? Are you feeling a little calmer?”

“Maybe a little. Thank you, Sarah.”

“Good. Okay. Just sit tight then. He should be in shortly.”

Then she closes the door, leaving it ajar and flipping something on the outer door frame, I’m guessing to indicate that I’m “prepped.” Whatever that means.

Stripped, basted in oil, and stewing is more like it.

I can feel my clammy thighs sticking to the crinkly white paper lining the table, and I rock back and forth to try and separate from it just as I hear the gentle knock at the door.