I woke up and the day was overcast and dreary, an atmosphere that if you saw on the movie screen you'd know that the protagonist would die by the end of the movie. My alarm went off early, earlier than I had realized, and I hadn't slept well the night before. My mind was full, anxious. I screwed up brewing coffee that morning, not inserting the pitcher directly under the tap so that I had coffee dripping and running down the side and not into the pitcher. I went to the bathroom, and then realized what a stupid idea that was, and made sure to grab a water bottle before I left, taking sips periodically.
While driving to the doctor's office, a black woman in a small white car almost ran into me. I was waiting at a stop light in the far left lane, about to make a turn, and she was turning into my lane. She turned too soon, and our headlights would have collided had I not honked, which prompted her to stop her car in the middle of the intersection, back up, and realign. Her face was a disaster, puffy cheeks and eyes, hair a mess, wet lines tracing from her eyes to her chin. Her morning was going worse than mine, so far.
I got there a few minutes early in case I needed to fill out paperwork, like you're supposed to. The receptionist's typing skills were obsolete, using the 'hunt and peck' method, and waiting for her to spell my long last name took forever. I mentioned why I was there, and she looked up and shook her head disapprovingly, and continued hunting and pecking. Bitch.
I waited in the lobby, reading my somewhat-ironic choice of book, Sabbath's Theater. A nurse called my name, and I followed her through the door, down the hall and into the room. She weighed me (180! The most I've ever weighed-eep!), took my blood pressure and pulse, and left to fetch the doctor.
He walked in. No pleasantries, no smile, just right into it. The door was still sliding shut while he spoke.
"So, been having some problems with urination lately, I see."
"Yeah not a lot it's not every time it's more like once a day or maybe once every other day but that's still more than I'd like ha." Verbal diarrhea.
He asked more questions, and I gave long-winded, fidgety responses. The pain came from the tip, not the base or the pelvic region, no discharge, no lesions or rashes. He guessed chlamydia or gonorrhea, but he was going to test me for the whole ball of wax, just to be sure.
"And how many sexual partners have you had, one or a few?"
"It's been..." pregnant pause, meaning more than it should, "a few." A quick afterthought--"It's been a while since my last test though."
He stares at me blankly then writes something down on the clipboard. I know it was the pause, how I was starting to think of an exact number but instead said 'a few.' I don't know if he's thinking I'm a slut, or if he's surprised that I could get that many, or if because last time I was tested I was adamant how I had just gotten out of a monogamous relationship and was only getting tested because it felt like something a single gay guy in college should do, not because he was actively worried or even passively worried.
He sort of shrugged while he finished filling out the paperwork. He had me sign a waiver for HIV, allowing them to tell the funeral director of my status in case I die before I know the results, and other long shot hypothetical situations.
I went and waited in the lobby for a while, absently-mindedly reading my book, and checking out the young guy who came in. He was 16, maybe 17, not a bad face but great tan legs with light hair and high calf muscles. The rain had started while I was sweating bullets in the room, and his mom dropped him off while she went to park the car. He waited outside under the overhang until she came, too afraid to go inside the doctor’s office by himself. His mom did all the talking to the receptionist while he stood and awkwardly looked around. He looked healthy, so I’m guessing he needed a physical before a summer sport or something. He was obviously straight, but I got to wondering how awkward it would be to run into a cute guy and trying to flirt in the waiting room. I started thinking about a short story, two guys in a waiting room at a testing center, both nervous and embarrassed yet flirty.
Another nurse called my name, and I walked past the 17 year old to get to the door; he smelled too much, both of a just-woken up BO and too much AXE deodorant to mask it. He also looked like he was growing in his first sideburns, spotty and scraggly but I bet he was secretly proud anyway.
Blood test, then urine test, then “We’ll call you in about two weeks for the results.” Two weeks? Homey don’t play that game.
“Why so long?”
“The doctor is going out of town next week, and protocol is to have him look over the results before we notify the patient.” Bitch motherfucker.
“Isn’t there a way I can find out faster? I mean, two weeks is quite a while.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s for insurance reasons. If it looks like there’s a health risk in your not knowing, we’ll obviously let you know sooner, or if there’s some sort of emergency your doctor at the hospital will let you know, but otherwise you’ll have to wait until the week of the… um, 26th to get your results.”
Bitch. I at least wish she wasn’t so… courteous so I could have someone to vent my frustrations. Two weeks to wait for a simple blood and urine test is outrageous. If I can go to a clinic and get HIV results in 15 minutes, I shouldn’t have to wait two weeks. I haven’t engaged in any high-risk behaviors and I’m not worried about HIV; besides, I don’t think there’s a clinic anywhere near here. Just give me some antibiotics and let’s be done with it.
It’s not like it stings that much, or that often, or that I’m worried about infecting others—living at home has a way of putting a damper on your sex life. I thought the night before was tough, waiting to get tested, full of anxiety. But two weeks? It’s a good thing my insurance runs out after I graduate, otherwise I’d be clamoring for a new doctor.
