Is it time?

I am not ashamed to admit I was almost today years old when I noticed that doctors’ offices often huddle together like fast food joints or mattress stores. And of course, it makes sense as the medical facilities are usually dotted around a hospital, in the same way fast food joints are generally dotted around some city hub.

It still doesn’t explain mattresses, though. Because unless you're a contortionist, you’re only going to use one at a time. It has to make you wonder who was the first mattress guy, who said, “Here. Right here in this meaningless street is where I’m going to set up my shop.” And the idea was so appealing that all the other mattress guys in the area were like, “Genius. Count me in.”

Anyway, I was thinking this and other useless trivia as I was walking to the Doctor’s office this week. - By the way. No stress, I am fine.

My primary care doctor is magic, but his practice still has one foot in the dark ages. They're not a fan of bank cards, and God forbid you mention something radical like Venmo. If you want to pay a bill, they like you to post in a check. I’m like, ‘Jeez, do you want me to sign it in hieroglyphics?’ So anyway, as I had to go and see the cancer doc, I figured I'd pop in to my regular doctor and pay an old copay I had hanging about.

It took me a while when I moved here to understand the way the medical world works. Back in the old country, the whole paying to see a doctor thing wasn't really an issue. Here in America, everything is done (or not done) by the Health Insurance companies who you pay monthly so you can potentially see a doctor. And then, for each visit to a medical person, there's also generally a copay, which can be any random number, though for us is usually about $15.

The other main thing I learned about healthcare here in America is that if you want to understand how Health Insurance companies work, you need to have a Mensa membership, and a full time administrative assistant to deal with the paperwork, and the patience of a fucking saint to handle the endless tirade of bullshittery that comes from navigating a system that constantly reevaluates whether it's still profitable to keep you alive.

Anyway, I digress. I really like my wee Doctor, and I don't mind that he's in the administrative dark ages, because his surgery feels like an old-time family practice. Even though we're in the middle of the San Fernando Valley, the atmosphere is very small-town. I can tell you, for example, that Alma, who does the cardiograms and injections and the like, has worked there for well over 13 years, and that Ronald, who answers the phone, is keen on bodybuilding.

Because of that, I generally bring Ronald fresh eggs when I visit, along with some eggs and honey for my friendly wee Doctor.

This time is no exception, and as I potter up the beautifully sunny street with my bagful of goodies, I thought how very much it was just like the old country. Not that the sun was always out, or that we ever took our family doctor eggs, but that whenever we went to the doctors, my Mum was on first-name terms with everybody in the practice.

And I was just on the verge of indulging myself in some full-bodied nostalgia about how the old days were easier and better, when my stomach automatically knotted with anxiety as I was about to pass by a construction site.

I am old now, but I remember not being old, and the yells and catcalls that would happen passing a building site were an accepted part of life. Not for being dressed provocatively but for being young and female. In between lifting planks or hammering in nails, these faceless douchebags would take time to yell about your ass or the size of your tits, or just exactly what they'd like to do with you if they could get up close. It was nothing personal. It happened to us all. To them, it was sport, a way to brighten up the day, but actually, it was fucking barbaric when I think back on it.

Nowadays, some guy in a hard hat yelling shit at young girls having the audacity to walk down the street would get reprimanded or even fired. And if that's because the world has supposedly gone woke, then I am so for it. Yes, and I am not ashamed to say it. I am all about the woke. Though in all honesty, that’s generally because I find the stuff people complain about as wokeness, usually falls under the categories of “Manners,” “Human decency,” “Nobody else’s business,” or “About fucking time.”

Anyhoos, as I wait at the traffic lights, a car pulls up. The sounds of “Last Night a DJ Saved My Life” pound from an open window, and I find myself smiling. I mean, you’d have to be dead not to find your body moving to the bass line on that song. It’s an oldie but a goodie, and such a burst of ridiculous memories flood into my mind, and I truly have to focus not to strut across the road.

Ronald is pleased to see me, and especially pleased to see I've brought him eggs. And when I tell him I've just popped in to sort out a co-pay, with great pride, he shows me they’ve upgraded their system. They've even got a QR code if I want to pay directly that way.

I laugh, and give him a card, and the whole matter is done and dusted in seconds, leaving room for us to have a quick chat about life, the Universe, and everything.

I head back out into the sun and over to another medical building. Even just the outside of this building changes my mood. I have been so many versions of me in its doorway: the worried, the terrified, the broken, the vulnerable, the grateful, the strong, the doubting. If there were a set of picture postcards depicting the range of human feelings, I have been all of those at some time or other in the foyer of this building.

The sun is baking down outside, but I follow in a woman who wears long trousers, a hoodie, and a woolen hat. Her skin is chalk white beneath her mask. She is right in the middle of the storm and cannot allow herself to look too far into the past or the future.

When I see the cancer doctor, we chat like old friends. About the weather, and going on vacation, and we dabble a bit with politics, and I snort with laughter when she says that sometimes when she reads the news, it feels like a light relief to come into work. And she smiles, observing me as we talk through the scans and results.

All is good. It has been good for a while now. I don't really belong here anymore. We both know it. Yet she is wise enough to understand that each of us has a balance to find in the space between where we are now and where we have been.

“How about six months?” she says.

“Sounds good,” I say. “And then maybe…”

She smiles. “And then maybe just annual check-ups, like we advise for everyone.”

And I nod. That feels right. It is almost time to let go.

Standing in the foyer of the odd little building in the middle of the hub of our local medical metropolis, I have one new feeling to add to my set of postcards. Realisation. The comprehension that nobody ever gets their life back. They just get to remember they actually do have one. And that holding on too tightly to pictures from the past doesn’t keep anyone safe from the vagaries of the future. It just keeps them blinkered, stifled, afraid. A bad thing once happened, and who knows it may happen again. But holding on to the fear of it steals everything that is beautiful. The songs we should remember are the ones that make us dance.

And as I head back home, I see the construction site in the distance. It really is an impressively big project. Once it's finished, it will completely change the skyline. And the view I see now will be hidden forever, accessible only as a memory.

And that's a good thing. Because living is about accepting change and movement. And because there always comes a time to move on.

Lynn

Xo

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Is it time? - Audio