Phobias, Revisited

Ryan and I sit in a room the size of our master closet. How does a person, let alone a physician, get any work done in this space? we wonder. On every wall a different diagram of the brain and central nervous system. I remember when I wanted to go into this stuff; to in fact be the person about to enter the room and not the person waiting. And waiting we were indeed, for over an hour. The last place on earth you'd take your spouse if given an afternoon of free babysitting, but yet. How about another game of hangman?
I thought back to the very first moment I knew I'd be in this office. The second trip to Sea World of the summer, making use of our season passes, in the height of Austin's heat wave. Suddenly my limbs were tingling, burning like frostbite, and it wasn't the first time. Just like that, Liv and I jumped in the fountain.



What kind of ailment would produce these symptoms?
If not already apparent, my doctor is pressed for time. He is brisk, calling out commands as if following the rules of a game, hop on one foot, close your eyes and touch your nose. (You didn't say Simon Says). I follow.
Inside this maze of a doctor's office, I play along. Reminded of the time my sister and I tried out 'expert level' at dance dance revolution when we were merely beginners I am scrambling to keep up with the game. MRI, lumbar puncture, encephalitis survey, locate a lab to run this bloodwork, wait for them to call you, don't eat for four hours and come early for-- what was that again? I am jerked into consciousness by the question of one nurse:
"Are you claustrophobic?"
Claustrophobia, the phobia that trumps all phobias except needles sucking out cerebral spinal fluid. It appears my new coach, the one who has barely explained the rules of the game, has ordered it all.
"Yes...I don't even really like hugs." I say, and wonder how I am going to do this.
At least he is thorough.
My mom has this theory that doctors with poor social skills make the best doctors, something about how an abrupt and tactless personality type makes good decisions in a crunch, and we'll see. I think he demonstrated a little bit of compassion in his own way, after thoroughly examining my symptoms shaking his head and saying,
"At twenty eight years old you are just a baby...just a baby."
We schedule the procedures.
I feel a strange sense of deja vu, thinking back to just three summers ago in Hawaii, upon learning the swimming with the dolphins experience was closed, we found ourselves in route to the next resort: sky diving. Within minutes we were signing our lives away, lawsuits and accountability need not apply. It's the same feeling in my stomach now.
M.D. delivers the final speech on his way out, almost as an afterthought.
"There's a population of people in the world who float around, sick as hell and not getting anywhere. They eventually make their way here."
A sentiment of hope, I'll take it. After Friday, we'll talk again.