When I walk in, I have that play-it-cool attitude but beneath the surface I am really a bundle of nerves. I check in, say please and thank you and how are you today, and then sit with my book to wait. I read a book instead of look at my phone because I’m trying to be less connected and, if I’m honest, I think it makes me look like a better person. I am not actually a better person at all, but at least I’m reading from a page and not endlessly scrolling on a screen.

I am sitting on a sheet of paper in only my underwear and a gown. I get so sweaty sitting there that I can feel the paper melding to my ass and backs of my legs; my hands are sweaty from fiddling with the plastic table and each other, and suddenly I am aware of just how clammy they feel. My toes, even though they are freezing cold, are also somehow sweating. I think I’m sweating everywhere. I try and reassure myself that Caity has seen this all before — she walks into work and first thing in the morning is checking out naked bodies for suspicious moles. She is used to seeing fat, sweaty bodies, and I find comfort in knowing that a body is just a body and skin is just skin and there’s nothing inherently wrong with the way mine has married this godforsaken parchment. 

When she comes in, Caity says hello in her normal professional way. She smiles brightly, bounces around the room, washes her hands, looks at my paperwork, searches the web for the new medicine I’ll be starting for my joint issues. She spies my book (the real paper and ink book beneath my pixelated phone) and asks what I’m reading, is it good, do I recommend it. Go As a River, it was a gift, I’m only about 60 pages in, it’s good so far, yes I’m sure you’d like it if you like books, what are you reading? The Correspondent. It’s about people writing actual correspondence to each other. Fascinating, I think. I write real letters to people often enough that this is not a novel idea to me. My therapist just told me about the same book, I say. It must be good if both of these professional women love it. Why do I care that they are professional and love the book? Maybe the book stinks and they both have bad taste, but I make a mental note to put it on my To Be Read list anyway because I bet the book really is that good.

Let me see your hands. Flip them over. Left arm out. Right arm out. Lay back, please. 

She flops one breast up and around, and then the other. I don’t know what to do with my hands and again I am acutely aware of how sweaty I am. Why the hell do I sweat so much? Where do I put my hands? Roll to my side, ok now the other side. Do I have anything around the genitals I want her to check out? Well, no, not really, but actually there is a spot right here. Looks totally fine, nothing to worry about. 

I’m sitting upright again, trying to redress and put my arms back into this miserable little gown that doesn’t even tie in the back. 

She sits in front of me on the rolling stool that every doctor’s office has. Is there anything else I’d like to talk with her about? She keeps eye contact as she looks up at me and waits for a response, still smiling.

A million things run through my mind and also nothing at all. I am safe here in this moment, still sweaty and mostly naked, and I can feel my nerves finally calming. I want to talk to her about so many things, ask so many questions, reflect on other things she’s read and take note of any recommendations. I want to tell her how much anxiety I feel during this appointment, how thankful I am for her patience and kindness. I want to tell her about my life. I want her to be my friend.

No, nothing else. I’m okay. See you in a year. 

I’m sitting in my car, tears in my eyes. My body is finally at rest. My nerves are relieved. My brain is able to process a single thought at a time and now I am thinking about how scary that was. Now I am thinking about how brave it is to show your body to another person and have them scrutinize and evaluate its appearance. I think about how this could have been so embarrassing, but instead it was so kind. I think about all the times my body has been violated, and how the simple act of moving my underwear has meant pain, but today it means reassurance. 

I drive to my next appointment still thinking of this one. I ask my phone to take a note and I dictate the letter I will write when I get home:

Dear Caity, As much as your profession is about healing bodies, your tenderness and compassion heals spirits and minds, too. As exposing as these appointments can feel, you’ve created a safe space by being a safe person. Thank you.