A VISIT TO THE DOCTOR

After shutting the front door in mid-March and settling in for a Covid-19-triggered home hibernation, I had one niggling worry: what if “something” happens. 

Like, suppose I fell down the basement stairs and broke a hip? What if Mr. Wonderful woke up at 2 AM with a horrendous pain in his chest?  Or I cut myself on broken glass and needed stitches? 

Several times a day, I heard myself say: Dear God, don’t make us go to a hospital in this coronavirus world. Fortunately, we didn’t have to.

Groceries were delivered. The local wine store discovered where we live. Dry cleaning sat in a bag in the front hall closet. (That blazer and pants weren’t planning a fun night on the town anyway.) Amazon tended to almost every need, from a carton of Campbell’s tomato soup to Triple A batteries. Wayfair (“we’ve got just what you need!”) shipped in lamps and area rugs for Mr. W’s Man Hole. 

When the eye doctor and dentist waived April appointments “until the virus situation settles a bit,” that was okay. But for a survivor of breast cancer, even nine years out, having my mammogram and yearly checkup cancelled did not sit easy. Especially because those same appointments had been postponed due to a fevered flu in December, a move to a new house in January, then a long-planned trip to Florida in February and March. 

“We have an opening at 8 AM on Wednesday,” Dr. Weissberg’s scheduling nurse said. 

Nervous? Uh huh. Ask any survivor how they feel just before a checkup or test, and it boils down to two words:  what if?

Arriving at Maine Medical Cancer Center that Wednesday was an eye-opener to the new normalcy.  I’m 100% in favor of everything that happened. It just underscores how the world has changed since Covid came to town.

Before being allowed inside the building, a nurse took my temperature and quizzed me at length on my whereabouts and health over the past two weeks. After entering the building, I had to sign in and wear a special sticker that would then permit me to walk down the long hall to Dr. Weissberg’s waiting area. 

Warning signs were everywhere, on benches (“Social Distance”) to visitor restriction lists plastered on every door. The waiting room, normally chock-a-block with cancer patients, was entirely empty. Everyone from the check-in lady to scrub-clad nurses wore N95 masks. 

All went well. “You look great,” Dr. Weissberg said. Okay, I’m number 2335 on the mammogram waiting list (“We had to cancel so many”) but her words alleviate my “what if” concerns.

It’s nice to be out, but it’s a whole new world out there.