Dear readers,
When I think of an exam room, I picture the spaces I worked in during my thirty-three years as a family doctor. I picture walking into a cramped room whose stark surfaces and bare walls offered little warmth or hint of comfort. I imagine the major piece of furniture, an exam table, covered with a white paper that audibly crinkles at the slightest touch.
I picture the guest of honor, my patient–who surely does not feel like a guest of honor in these surroundings. They’ve been waiting for ten, twenty or thirty minutes–and sometimes longer–for my knock and my entrance. They seem a little dejected until they look up, and then sometimes, but not always, they brighten.
In spite of its stark furnishings, the exam room always felt like a sacred space to me. It was a place where a great mystery would be unlocked: What’s going on with this individual? It wasn’t always easy to tell from a patient’s countenance, but I always hoped that hidden truths would gradually come to the surface–the source of a troubling symptom, a family member in crisis, or a confession about medications not taken, cigarettes smoked or sugary snacks consumed.
Even when there was no complaint–“I’m just here for a refill”–there was always a bit of detective work involved. Well, let’s just see how your blood pressure is doing. Do you ever check your blood pressure at home? When do you usually take your pills? Do you ever miss a dose?
And over time, as my relationship with a patient grew, the dismal surroundings could fade away as a visit might became something of a mini reunion–It’s good to see you. It’s been awhile!
At some point, the connection could become as important as the blood pressure or blood sugar–and, to my way of thinking, perhaps more important.
I’ll never forget when I went for my second or third visit with my own doctor. He entered the room, sat on his swivel chair, turned to look at me and said, “So how are you?”
Not “How are you?” but “How are you?” The emphasis on the second word made all the difference. I felt seen. I got the sense that he really wanted to know.
Did it matter that his exam room was no more luxurious than mine, and that, truth be told, the furnishings were a bit shabby? It did not. Not really.
Exam rooms are lifeless places–the crinkly paper, the glass canisters with the little army of tongue depressors, the ill-fitting paper gowns, the electronic screen that steals attention from the supposed caregiver. And sometimes the annoying corporate notices on the cabinets: “We strive for fives!”
At the same time, it is possible to infuse these dull space with warmth, with kindness, with spirit and, dare I say it, with love.
September’s More Voices theme is The Exam Room. What’s your experience of being in the exam room–as a patient, as a clinician or as a caregiver? What’s it like for you?
Share your story using the More Voices Submission Form. For more details, visit More Voices FAQs. And have a look at last month’s theme: Awaiting a Diagnosis.
Remember, your story should be 40-400 words. And no poetry, please.
We look forward to hearing from you. And thanks for being a part of the Pulse community.
Warmly,
Paul Gross
Editor