Your Name on the Door

You wake with the feeling that something is wrong. You cannot quite describe it - you have a headache, a dry mouth and an uncomfortable flutter beneath your ribs. You sit on the edge of the bed and wait for the feeling to pass, but you only become more aware of it. You decide to make an appointment.

You find the surgery’s number already saved in your phone. You cannot remember saving it, although you suppose you must have called it before. You call, they answer, you give your name, explain that you do not feel well and accept an appointment for that morning. You feel better simply for having arranged it.

You dress slowly, checking twice that you have your keys. You leave the house with the strange impression that you have forgotten something important. You cannot think what it might be.

You arrive at the surgery, you recognise the low brick wall, the narrow car park and the stubborn door that needs a second push. You notice a patch of peeling paint beside the bell and feel oddly certain that it has been there for months.

You enter and approach the reception desk and you give your name. You receive a brief smile that seems more familiar than welcoming and you are directed towards the waiting room.

You choose a chair beneath the window and place your hands on your knees. You can smell disinfectant, damp coats and coffee from somewhere you cannot see. You look towards the electronic screen knowing that when it is your turn, your name will come up.

You read a reminder about missed appointments, followed by advice about washing your hands. You watch the many healthcare messages that come up that repeat until you know which one will come next.

You glance at the clock.

You have arrived early and try to remember whether you have ever sat in this particular chair before. You recognise a small tear in the upholstery, but you cannot attach that recognition to any previous visit.

You turn your attention back to the screen waiting for  your name to appear. You begin rehearsing what you will say. You will explain the headache first, then the fluttering sensation. You will mention the tiredness, although you cannot remember when it began. You worry that you will forget something once you are inside.

You hear a soft chime and look up. You see a name appear beside a room number. You watch somebody rise and disappear through the waiting-room doorway. You shift in your chair.

You understand how exposed you will feel when your own name appears. You will be subjected to everybody’s glance, cross the room and follow the corridor without knowing where the door is and whether you will remember what to say. You wish the appointment were over already.

You wait longer than you expected and find yourself watching the consulting-room corridor rather than the screen. You feel an unreasonable urge to go down it and check what is causing the delay. You nearly stand but you stop yourself.

You sit back and press your palms against your knees. You hear another chime, and you see your name. You read it twice and beneath it, you see: PLEASE GO TO ROOM 4.

You rise too quickly and catch the arm of the chair. You wait for the dizziness to settle and you feel the eyes around you without looking towards them. You walk through the doorway.

You know which way to turn left or right, and you tell yourself that you must have noticed the signs, although you cannot remember reading any.

You pass Room 1. You pass Room 2. You hear a telephone ringing behind a closed door and know, with uncomfortable certainty, exactly where the telephone sits. You imagine it beside a computer, beneath a notice about repeat prescriptions. You stop and think you have never seen inside that room.

You continue towards Room 4. You feel worse with every step. You reach the door and raise your hand to knock, but before knocking you notice the nameplate. You lower your hand as you are looking at your own name.

You lean closer, searching for a difference in the spelling and you find none. Before your name, you read two letters. DR.

You take a step backwards and you look down the corridor towards the waiting room, suddenly desperate to see somebody who can explain the mistake. You find the corridor empty. You turn back as you know the nameplate as you remember choosing its lettering.

You push the door open and you see a desk, a computer and two chairs. You recognise the blue examination couch, the blood-pressure monitor and the stubborn drawer that never closes properly. You know where the spare batteries are kept. You know which cupboard contains the disposable gloves. You know that the window catches unless you lift it slightly before turning the handle. You should not know any of this.

You walk towards the desk and you find your mug beside the keyboard. You see your pen lying across an open notebook. You reach into your pocket and you find another pen exactly like it.

You look from one to the other and you feel the flutter beneath your ribs become a pounding. You turn towards the patient’s chair. You have spent years looking at that chair from the other side of the desk. You have never noticed how small it seems.

You sit down and try to remember your journey to the surgery. You remember leaving the house, but you cannot picture the road. You remember making the appointment, but you cannot recall a voice answering. You look towards the computer and see your name on the appointment list.

You scroll down and you find your name beside every appointment. You close your eyes and you hear the waiting-room chime. You hear it again - you cannot make it stop.

You wake up at your desk. You lift your head from your folded arms and feel the edge of your sleeve imprinted against your cheek. You find your mug beside the keyboard. You find one pen across your notebook. You look towards the door. You see your name through the narrow-frosted panel, reversed from this side.

You remember. You are the doctor and you work in this surgery. You came in early to finish paperwork, rested your head for a moment and drifted into a dream.

You have not made an appointment. You have not been sitting in the waiting room. You have not been called to see yourself. You breathe slowly until the room feels solid again. You look at the patient’s chair – there is nobody sitting there.

You remember the helplessness of waiting, the rehearsal of symptoms, the fear of forgetting something important. You remember wanting for your name to appear on the screen and remember walking down the corridor seeing your own name on the door. You glance at the appointment list. You see a name that is not yours. You are the doctor and you have a list of patients waiting!

You reach towards the control that will summon your first patient, then pause. You stand instead, and you open the consulting-room door and walk down the corridor. You enter the waiting room and you call the name yourself, as you know what it is like just sitting in the waiting room staring at a screen. You greet the patient and the strained look on the patient’s face disappears.