Seventeen years old and here I am,
sitting on a cheap plastic chair,
watching fish swim back and forth in their aquatic cage.

Surely I shouldn’t be here.

“Kelsy?”

I leave the wailing babies behind to walk through the hallways painted like a friendly jungle.
The nurse tells me to wait in the Tiger Room.

I read a poster with facts about big cats
to keep from wondering if I’m going to get a shot this time.

I’m tempted to flip through one of the picture books,
but I scroll through e-mails on my phone, like an adult, instead.

This is the first time I’ve been to the doctor without parental backup.
I have my brother, but he’s no help to defend against the logic of a health professional.

I worry that I won’t be able to make sense of her responsible-sounding gibberish,
but I’m “practically an adult now,” so I can handle this.

The doctor enters and starts with the questions.
I tell her I’ve been having trouble breathing,
but of course when she pulls out her stethoscope I sound “clear as a bell.”

At one point in our conversation she says,
“That’s what it’ll be like when you become a big person.”

I struggle to choke down a sassy, “Excuse me?”

I’m about to graduate high school and go to college,
and I still go to the pediatrician.

I’m starting to keep track of my own finances,
and I still go to the pediatrician.

I’m about to go out and start my new life,
fend for myself and have my own rules,

But I can’t even handle the pediatrician.