Doctor-Patient Confidentiality 01

Vito's graying locks are pulled back into a tight bun as usual, and she's covered up in a dark cardigan and an equally dark, conservative pencil skirt with leggings underneath like always. Her wardrobe knows no distinction between the seasons. Vito dresses the same all year round.

I'm not a huge fan of hers, mostly because of her rigidness and cold demeanor, and while I can't imagine living my life by a lot of her rules, I can respect her approach to education—as strict and conservative as it is.

Trixie barely tolerates "the uptight hag" as she calls her, but does her best not to butt heads with any professors, especially not Vito. Trixie may be headstrong and outspoken, but she's not stupid. She wouldn't be careless about getting on this woman's bad side, not when her grades and future as a classical vocalist are at stake.

We don't waste any time in taking our positions, arranging ourselves in a semi-circles according to our various segments and vocal groups. Vito faces our entourage, and with her back to the wall of mirrors holds her hand up in a balled fist signaling that we're starting. She does three silent counts with her fingers, motioning for us to begin.

As lead, I start out humming the melody of the song's intro by myself, and go on to sing the first stanza of the first verse as well. Kayla Daniels and Julianne both join me in the second stanza as the two other first-part vocalists. Trixie and the second-parters sing their way in next, and then eventually the bass-vocalists merge with everyone as we all round up the first verse. All our voices fuse together perfectly, and from Vito's acknowledging expression, we're doing a good job. She actually seems impressed.

And, boy, is it hard to impress this woman.

We continue our harmonized a cappella in synchrony and with precision, and I can hear the waves of our enthusiastic voices bouncing off the walls and echoing loudly in the spacious room.

I try to keep focused, even though the thought of my stomach hitching again ails me. The bridge comes up again, and I brace myself for it, instinctively balling my hands into tight fists until I feel my knuckles go sore.

Please don't act up again. Please don't act up again.

I keep repeating the silent prayer, imploring my stomach to behave itself as I hold a high note for several seconds. Before I know it, the bridge is over and the song is soon coming to an end. And there are no signs of a hitch in sight. Phew. Thank goodness.

The vocal groups start to exit in the reverse order they came in. The heavy undertones and background rumbles dissipate as the bass vocalists fade out first. The second parts follow next, and then Kayla and Julianne's voices softly linger until they eventually disappear, leaving me to finish the last verse and hum the ending melody by myself once again.

Out of the blue, my body jerks almost violently, as if I just had a hippo-sized hiccup.

It's back again.

Fuck.

I place my hand on my chest at the rising pain, even though the action provides no relief to the discomfort. I try to open my mouth to finish the song, but only a hoarse utterance escapes my lips.

Vito gives me a look that I think is a mix of surprise, concern, and annoyance. But mostly annoyance.

"Is there a problem, Miss Gallo?" she asks in her cold, rigid tone.

I hear the giggles of a few people coming from the other side of the semi-circle, and they only stop when Vito shoots their owners a glare before she returns to face me.

I clear my throat. "N-no, ma'am."

She holds her gaze on me for a few seconds before returning her attention to everyone else.

"From the top, then," she says. "Hopefully this time Miss Gallo can pay attention long enough to actually finish the song."

I can just feel the sheer vindication oozing from those around me, as if Vito telling me off just made their whole year. A glance in the mirrors ahead confirms this. The satisfaction is written all over most of their grinning faces. I guess I never really realized just how much of a public enemy I am here.

From the way they're looking at me, you would think I was getting my just desserts for sodomizing all their cats. Jeez.

We go through six more rounds, and each time, I manage to fuck up at some point. At the end of the seventh round, Vito gives me an unfaltering harsh look, and I can't blame her. The lead vocalist just missed three key notes. Again. Add that to the other mishaps and missing the entire ending the first go around, and you have one seriously pissed Gertrude Vito.

Time continues to go by, and I realize I haven't had a single successful round today, and at the rate things are going, there's no redeeming this practice session for me at this point.

This is a total fail. I can't believe I'm struggling this much.

I'm extremely unfocused now, and any shred of confidence that may have been there before has completely left my body. Right now, I have no semblance of confidence whatsoever. I totally sucked ass at the one thing I know I'm good at. I seriously want to hide under a needle.

Vito seems to note my highly unnerved demeanor, and ends practice about half an hour earlier than usual. I'm incredibly glad that she does, even though I know she's not doing it because she feels bad for me. She just has a low tolerance for "incompetence", and gets frustrated with errors easily.

She's definitely not the most patient person in the world. Either way, I'm grateful for the decision.

Anything to spare me any more utter humiliation today.

As everyone streams out of the studio, silently jeering and mocking me, I can't help but feel so alone and isolated—a feeling I've continuously had for practically all of my adult life. I know Trixie will always be a supportive friend, but even she has a 'Seriously-what-the-fuck-just-happened?' look plastered all over her face as she glances my way.

I sigh in exhaustion and frustration as I head for the door, feeling defeated and deflated.

"Stick around for a minute, Miss Gallo," Vito calls out to me.

It's not a request. It's one hell of an order if I ever heard one. I wince internally as I can only imagine what's coming next.

The last thing I want to do right now is talk to anyone, let alone her. Trixie gestures towards the door, signaling that she'll be waiting for me outside as I have my after-class 'chat' with Vito.

I brace myself as I walk over to meet the older woman. In five brutal minutes, she tells me off in her uber strict tone, asking me if I realize how important this performance is and how close we are to it.

She continues to chastise me without even bothering to hear me out, riding anything I have to say off as either "excuses" or "slacking off because I'm relying solely on my talent".

I feel myself quickly losing patience, and it's taking every bone in my body not to cuss this hag out right here and now.

Listening to her make all these inaccurate and judgmental assessments about me is really pissing me off, but I refrain from saying anything.

I think I have a renewed sense of hatred for this woman, and I can already hear Trixie spewing her I I-told-you-Vito's-an-uptight-bitch speech.

Vito finally ends her judgmental rant, and at her suggestion— well, more like her demand—I decide to head to the campus clinic for a check-up, just to make sure there aren't any underlying medical issues at hand.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The walk over to the clinic takes about fifteen minutes, and it's mostly comprised of me feeling really cold again and Trixie trying to make me feel better about what had just transpired at rehearsal.

It's much brighter outside now, and the scenery is a stark difference from what it is during the spring and summer months. There are white mounds of piled up snow and barren trees everywhere.

Several people are crowded at the various bus stops in their heavy winter gear as vapor escapes their mouths and nostrils.

Everything looks so bleak, and winter's only just begun. We're barely two weeks in and already the place looks like fucking Antarctica.

I sigh, resigning myself to the reality that I'm going to have to deal with five more months of this crap.

We finally get to the clinic, and I feel my skin crawl as soon as we walk through the transparent glass doors. I fight the urge to hold my breath as I feel an expected wave of nausea rush over me. I do my utmost best not to freak out. I don't exactly have the best memories of places like this. I hate clinics. And hospitals. And sick bays. And any other types of health centers and facilities.

Just being in them makes me feel ill.

Trixie and I are rudely ushered into the main waiting lounge by one of the disgruntled-looking receptionists where we wait. And wait. And wait some more.

It takes two and a half bloody hours for the nurse practitioner to see me from the time we get get there. I'm really not an impatient person, and I get that waiting times can be long, especially since the clinic's services are free to students—which is the only reason I can even come here—but come on!

I mean, seriously? It's not even that crowded today, and they don't start giving out flu shots for like another month. And after what I endured this morning, I don't think I have much patience for much else today.

After watching several staff members walking up and down the hallway, going through seven issues of People magazine and countless 'safe sex' brochures, I finally get called into one of the examination rooms.

Trixie, despite her own impatience, continues to wait for me in the waiting room, playing Angry Birds on her phone to keep herself from catapulting a projectile at someone in real life.

I'm really happy she's here.

Despite her outward appearance, she's one of the most caring people I know. She's such a gem, and with my grandma three and a half hours away and not many other people I can depend on, I'm pretty sure my life would be a lot less exciting and a helluva lot more depressing had we not sat next to each other on the first day of orientation. Our friendship was practically instantaneous, and she's been one of the few people who's fully embraced me ever since I started school here.

I shut the door behind me, and another wave of nausea hits me as I take in the bland white walls and the sterile smell of the closed room. I feel goosebumps forming on my skin and the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention.

I feel trapped.

I hear the smacking of rubber against skin and turn to see a woman in maybe her early fifties or so putting on a pair of disposable gloves. The blue translucent latex fits a bit loosely on her slender hands.

"You can put your bag over there, hon," she says as she points over to an equally white countertop by a barred window. The idea of leaving any of my belongings unattended here makes me feel extremely uneasy.

Maybe I should've just left my stuff with Trixie in the waiting room. I reluctantly place my bag and jacket where she suggests, eyeing it from time to time as I lie on the examination bed.

She brings out some equipment including a pressure meter and a thermometer, presumably to take my blood pressure and other vitals. I feel the pressure on my wrist increase as the band tightens with each squeeze she gives the pump. My eyes travel over to the laminated name tag clipped onto her breast pocket.

Jane Seyfried.

Her name is Jane...

Like my mother.

I glance at her face again, admiring the way she focuses and her level of concentration at the task at hand. She really does look like a Jane; poised and graceful with a subtle and quiet strength about her. Women like this are often overlooked, but are always missed dearly when they're gone...

Like my mother.

I feel my chest constricting again as the threat of oncoming tears burn my eyes. Today is just not a good day. I wish I would have just slept in and said I was sick. I sure as hell feel like it now.

As Jane continues to take my vitals, she asks me a range of questions including, "Are you currently sexually active?", "When was your last period?", "When were you last sexually active?", and "How many sexual partners have you ever had?"

No. Last week. Six years ago. One.

Personally, I think most of the questions are irrelevant to my situation, but I guess they're pretty standard for college girls everywhere, especially here in a Wisconsin college town where the only thing everyone does aside from drink obscene amounts of alcohol is screw everyone who drinks obscene amounts of alcohol.

She finally gets to the actual examination, ushering me to lift my top as I lay back. The air feels warm on my exposed skin, but not even that can get rid of the chills this place gives me.

She proceeds to examine my torso, intermittently pressing her gloved hands firmly on various areas of my belly.

"Let me know if you feel any pain," she says.

I nod, "Okay." It barely comes out in a whisper. I'm so uncomfortable right now. The only thing that's making this even remotely bearable for me is her soothing and endearing voice. She seems like a really sweet and patient person, and I hope my show of discomfort doesn't make her think I'm just being a bratty tool or a whiny crybaby.

Her fingers wallow around for several seconds as I feel nothing but the rubbery texture of latex and the rapid thudding of my heart in my chest.

She presses firmly right under the center of my ribcage and my body retreats on reflex.

That's definitely the spot.

CHAPTER NINE

She pinpoints the area of concern, touching the same area again and parts adjacent to it to confirm that it is in fact the source of my ailment.

"It could be a number of things," she says. "Have you eaten or drank anything out of the ordinary since it began?"

"No, not that I can think of," I say, my voice a lot hoarser than I remember it being.

"Do you drink heavily?" she asks.

This is Wisconsin. And I work at a bar. Define heavily.

"Not really...," I say, the uncertainty obvious in my voice.

"Do you drink more than once a week and about how much in that time period?"

"I really only drink occasionally. Maybe once or twice a month. Beer mostly. No more than a bottle each time."

And that's only really because I'm broke. Like most adults my age, I'd probably drink more if I wasn't so stripped for cash all the damn time.

She simply nods. She rolls my top back down, and I can only assume she's done. "You're certainly not the typical college girl, huh? No boyfriends, virtually no drinking..." she trails off with a gentle smile.

The smile I give her in return is unsure as I simply say, "I just don't really have the time for all that right now."

Or the freaking money!

I know I don't have the desire either. At least not for the boyfriend part.

But I'm not about to explain my life story to a stranger in a gloomy examination room who just got done poking my belly, no matter how nice she seems.

She takes off each glove with a pop and smack, and discards them into the trash receptacle at her feet.

"We can't really determine what's causing you the discomfort without doing either an ultrasound or an endoscopy at this point. Since you noticed the abnormality over a month ago, I would highly recommend that you get either one as soon as possible.

"It can be IBS or the beginnings of a gastric ulcer or something else entirely. Whatever it is, it seems to be concentrated just below your ribcage so I can probably rule out IBS, but again, you'll have to meet with a physician to really determine what it is.

"We don't offer ultrasound services here at the clinic, but I can refer you to someone over at the Greenwood Surgical Center. You know the one on Hashinger Boulevard, about three miles from here? They offer all those services and more, and the doctors there will definitely be able to help you out a lot more than we can over here."

She keeps going on for a bit longer, mostly reiterating what she's already said, but I've pretty much stopped listening to her at this point. All sorts of things are going through my mind, haphazardly bouncing around in utter chaos, and I can almost hear my brain cussing me out as it spins out of control with so many thoughts at once.

An ultrasound or endoscopy? The surgical center?

What the fuck?

I don't have the money for any of that!

And I sure as fuck don't have health insurance anymore.

My eyes dart around the room restlessly as I try to compose my roguish thoughts. My expression must be a clear reflection of how shitty I feel right now, because she seems to read my troubled mind.

"Give me just a second, I'll be right back," she says before she heads out of the room. The door closes after her with a fairly soft thud. Even the way she closes doors is gentle. My father would have liked her. He was always so touchy about how people closed doors, whether in buildings or cars, saying shutting them too hard could end up with someone losing their finger.

Another sigh escapes me for the million and third time today.

I really don't want to be thinking about my dad right now. I feel myself go limp as if the very essence of me has been sucked out of my body through a wide straw. This really sucks ass. Where the hell am I supposed to get money for an ultrasound?

The door opens again and Jane's presence fills the room once more. She holds out a crisp white 2 x 4" card as she approaches me.

"Here," she simply says as she hands it over to me.

I take it and hold it firmly between my long fingers as I read the professionally formatted dark blue font on it.

John T. Templin, M.D. Chief Surgeon, Greenwood Surgical Center.

She moves over to the hand sanitizer dispenser and rubs a few pumps all over her hands.

"John's a great doctor and a frequent referral of ours. Plus, he's my brother," she adds with a smile. "I've given him a call and told him he should be expecting you around one-thirty this afternoon if that time works for you. Your consultation with him is on me, and he'll be able to determine if you even really need an ultrasound or any other in-depth diagnostic procedure at that point. Alright?"

I'm not sure what to make of this extension of kindness. I don't know why she's being nice to me, and I'm almost unsure how to react. The paranoid chick in me sees this as a bit of a red flag, searching for any signs that her kindness is of some sort of gimmick, but there don't seem to be any.

"Thank you," I manage. It sounds a lot less enthusiastic than I'd like, especially since she's being so nice, but I'm confused and worried on so many levels right now. Thankfully, she doesn't seem to mind my bland response.

"No problem, sugar. Good luck with everything, 'kay?"

"Thanks," I force a smile once more as she leaves the room.

I soon follow suit, grabbing my belongings in haste and with quite a bit of eagerness to get the hell out of that room and out of that entire building altogether. Thankfully, Trixie shares my sentiments.

CHAPTER TEN

I have about three hours until my appointment with Doctor Templin, and since Trixie doesn't have class for another hour, we decide to get some breakfast before either one of us passes out from starvation.

She calls Bill and has him meet us over at the Overground, the largest eatery on west campus. Bill lets us know that he's already there by the time we arrive, with seats saved for both of us.

He's undeniably punctual for everything, even something as informal and trivial as getting food. While I find it overzealous at times, now is not one of them. The place is packed and crowded as hell, and his early-bird tendencies are definitely paying off in our favor right now.

Several bright yellow signs are randomly scattered across the hall, cautioning everyone that it's slippery and to be careful. I look down at the floor. It's covered in haphazard muddy shoe prints and has a few soggy paper towels and disposable cups littered here and there as well.