Waiting

I'm back at the knee doctor again this morning after feeling little to no relief from the cortisone shot I got three weeks ago.  The waiting room is quiet except for the occasional interruption by a staff member in blue scrubs who appears at the door with clipboard in hand and calls out the name of the next patient.  The  faint smell of antiseptic in the air reminds me of visits I would take to my pediatrician when I was little.  Dr. Cooper was an older man filled with kindness and patience.  His wife, who worked with him each day, always greeted me with a smile and made sure I left with a lollipop in hand.  The waiting room was a mix of adult-sized chairs and small tables that were just my size.

I would always hear the gentle click of heels on the wooden floors before Mrs. Cooper opened the door and called me back.  The exam rooms were large and filled with glass jars of the kinds of things doctors need on a daily basis: cotton balls, tongue depressors, Band Aids, and the like.  It was a quiet place.  Sure, there were the inevitable cries of small children on the other end of a needle of some sort, but when I think about the time I spent at Dr. Cooper's office I always smile.  That's probably because I don't really remember the shots that much.  I also think the quiet, positive experiences at the office in the big yellow house are the reason I never much mind going to the doctor today.