Instinctively I reach around myself and gather the gown as tightly as I can around my midsection, straightening just as Dr. Goodman opens the door and steps into the room.

“Alright, Molly. All set?”

“Uh huh.” As if my anxiety isn’t already at an all-time high, I see the stethoscope now draped over his shoulders and for a moment everything feels like it’s happening in slow motion. Like I might just pass out. My heart feels like it’s going to burst straight through my chest wall. The scent of the oil is suddenly cloying, making me feel queasy and light-headed.

“How’s that essential oil working for you?” he asks as he walks to the sink and lathers and rinses his hands, pitching the towel expertly into the trash once his hands are dry.

“I think maybe it’s too early to tell …”

Dr. Goodman leans forward to adjust the height on the stool and gravity takes over, the heavy bell of his stethoscope swinging away from his chest. I can’t look at it without thinking about his hands planting it on various parts of my naked body. He sinks down onto the stool and wakes up the tablet in his hand.

“Give it some time. It’s pretty good stuff.”

He’s focused intently over some data on the iPad, scrolling through pages for what feels to me like a really long time.

Then he stands, reaches for two aggressive pumps of hand sanitizer along the way, and approaches me, still rubbing his hands dry. As he reaches the end of the exam table, he places his hands deliberately and firmly on my thighs. The diaphragm of his stethoscope is now flush against his body, and it moves a little with each rise and fall of his chest.

I’m struck by the odd symmetry of this moment. For while the stethoscope now flush against his chest will soon be flush against mine – a realization that sends a ripple of goosebumps over the surface of my skin – the fact is that the secrets of his body will remain hidden safe and secure, while mine will be amplified, fully exposed to his ears, his eyes, and his hands.

His eyes scan me quickly from head to toe, and something in their appraisal brings back that transparent feeling I had earlier. I feel completely wide open and exposed, like there’s nothing I can hide from them, nothing he can’t see.

“Okay, let’s get started. I want you to close your eyes and let’s take a couple of nice, slow, deep breaths together, in through the nose, and out through the mouth.”

His hands on my thighs are an anchor and I’m surprised by the centering effect it has on me.

“That’s it. Slowly and deeply. Again. In through your nose, and out through your mouth.”

He removes his hands as deliberately as he placed them, moving quietly away from the exam table.

“Good. Once more. In … and … out.”

When I open my eyes, I find him attaching an otoscopic head to a standard scope handle. He shines the light into his palm testing the brightness as he moves back to the side of the exam table.

“How are we doing?”

I nod warily. “Your nurse asked me if I had a heart condition after she took my vital signs.”

“Yes, I saw them. We can check them again later on when you’re a little bit calmer.” Then, “Okay Molly, I’m going to take a look in your ears first. Just turn your head a little for me … “

When he finishes looking in my ears, he straightens and changes out the otoscope head for a clean one before checking out my nose and mouth, then the back of my throat. He moves with unhurried efficiency, swapping the otoscopic head with the one for the ophthalmoscope. Then he flips the light switch, leaving the room dark but for the filtered light shining through the windows.

“Okay Molly, just bear with me a second while I examine the backs of your eyes. I’m going to need to get pretty close to your face here, sorry for that …”

This is the closest he has gotten to me since I met him an hour ago, close enough that I can feel his breath on my face. He smells fresh, a faint mixture of mint – at least I think that’s him and not me – sandalwood, and hospital-grade soap. I’d recognize that smell anywhere. It takes me back to my childhood, and the few hospitalizations I had at an early age.

He uses the same light to check my pupils, asking me to follow the light with my eyes, and finally to look straight ahead. That’s when I see the deep blue shade of his eyes and the dark lashes that accentuate them.

“Do you see an ophthalmologist regularly, Molly?” he asks, returning the scope handle to its place on the wall nearby and flipping the light switch back on.

“Uh huh, once a year.”

“I need to make a note to have them send me some records. Okay. Fine.” He moves once again to the foot of the exam table. “I’ll do a brief neurological exam now, just relax.”

I remember the school doctor asking me to do the same things that Dr. Goodman is asking me to do: lift my shoulders, squeeze my eyes shut, puff my cheeks out, pull him toward me and push him away, close my eyes and tell him when I can sense a cotton wisp touching various parts of my face …

“Everything looks good here. Questions about anything so far?”

“No, I don’t think so,” I answer quietly. The only question hounding my mind at the moment is whether or not I’m going to have to have a well woman exam, which I keep to myself. I don’t want to speak it into existence.

“Okay. I’m going to assess your thyroid next. Just a little pressure …” His capable hands palpate my neck from the front, then he pivots to the counter to grab a dixie cup of water that I hadn’t even seen. Sarah must’ve placed it there before leaving the room. He hands me the cup and moves behind me, palpating my neck from behind this time.

“Go ahead and swallow …” and then, “very good. That all feels normal,” taking the cup from me and discarding it into the trash. Coming back to face me at the foot of the table he places a hand lightly on each of my wrists, counting the beats in silence.

Time seems to expand as I sit there, feeling my pulse throb under his fingers. It’s a pleasant feeling – relaxing almost – until I think about sitting naked before him from the waist up. That sends a surge of anxiety through my body that he must be able to feel. His eyes shift calmly up to mine as he continues to count.

“Just relax, you’re doing fine. Nice easy breaths,” he says quietly. Then he retreats, sinks onto his stool and rolls over to my feet, bending over to feel my pedal pulses. He nods slowly as he counts. “Any trouble with the circulation in your feet Molly?”

“Nope. They’re always cold, but I haven’t lost sensation or anything,” I respond.

“That’s good. Your pulses are nice and strong, equal on both sides.” He then places two fingers gently over my left carotid artery for about thirty seconds. “Okay. Very good.”

With a reassuring smile, Dr. Goodman grips either end of his stethoscope and casually swings it over his head in one fluid movement, and things start moving in hazy slow motion.