The Pediatrician

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.