Day 76 – Writing Exercise

…

That was the trouble with waiting rooms.  It was the calm before the storm.

Some days they were empty with a plethora of seats to choose from, and others where you couldn’t find anywhere to sit, or the last place was next to a screaming baby.

I hated being sick, but I hated going to the doctor more.

Today it was filling fast.  The old system was first come first served but that lasted a week because no one observed the rules.  The nurse would come out and ask who was next, and the jostling began.

Now you made an appointment and thought we were seen in appointment order.

That was fine, but as the day slid by, the times slid too, and a two pm appointment could very easily become a three thirty one.

That was the price of popularity.  Perhaps it was time for a change.

…

There was a new surgery on the main road not far from me, and there had been a letter drop advising of it opening.

It used all the problems of my usual practice as selling points for us, prospective patients to change.  The thing was, all the staff were Chinese.  I wondered if that meant we would have interpretation errors or language issues.

This was the problem with some of the doctors at the hospital, that language issue, only it was more international.

It was a good thing that I had a smattering of Mandarin from my days as a roving diplomat, before I met the one person who shared my desire to see the world.  She was sitting next to me, reading a novel on her Kindle, a present from our daughter.  We were both here to assess the practice.  For us and others.

Sitting in the new waiting room, the aromas of fresh paint, new carpet and an air freshener all compete with each other for dominance.   The chairs were comfortable, special seats for the aged, like us, away from the playpen for parents with children.

The magazines and newspapers were not from the 19th century, old doctors cast off’s for luxury houses, luxury cars, and hotels no one could afford.  Books in a bookshelf for all ages of children, contemporary magazines for parents with and without children.  And one or two for the retired, like us.

These were the front pages of one magazine, the golden years outfit our lives.  Melinda simply snorted almost in derision. Like me, we were still wondering when those golden years were going to start. And, she muttered, she was still trying to figure out how a 20-year-old columnist could know what our so-called golden years were.

If we had been in our 60s, they would be long gone.

There were only a few waiting; perhaps the idea of changing from the usual doctors with the gruff manner and quick turnaround hadn’t yet translated into enough disdain to make that change.

Perhaps they would let us crash test dummies pave the way, providing word-of-mouth recommendations, or not.

The young girl manning the reception desk, one of three, was bright and enthusiastic, a change from the dour, all-business middle-aged gossips, who didn’t wrestle too hard with the obligations of their NDA with their practice

The small town was one where everyone knew everyone else, and sadly, their business.  Perhaps in this practice, secrets would remain secrets.

A doctor came out and called a name. 

A lady sitting two seats along slowly got to her feet.  The sight of the youthful Chinese doctor seemed to worry her.

He added an aside, one that I translated as Don’t be scared.  I looked at her.  She seemed just that.

She had picked up on the Chinese words.

I said quietly as I stood to help her, “There’s nothing to worry about.  I wouldn’t be here if there was.”

She looked me up and down, then shuffled in his direction, shaking her head.  The last time I’d seen her was at the other surgery, giving the stern receptionist a lecture on lateness and how people didn’t have time for tardiness.

It had fallen on deaf ears.

I sat down again.

A few minutes later, it was our turn, right on the precise time of our appointment.  We were taken to a room that was equally fresh, new, and sterile, where the germs would die of fright long before they got to infect anyone.

Our doctor was female, and looked like she was fresh out of medical school and hardly had any accent at all.  Her English was perfect, and she knew her medical stuff.  She diagnosed Melinda’s ailment and a few other minor ailments that other doctors had dismissed, recommending a Chinese herbalist if she was so inclined.

She would be.

A reasonable payment, and we were on our way.

Taking the bus, as it pulled away from the curb, she asked, “What do you think?”

“Definitely.  What an interesting way to collect information on everyone who goes there.”

“You think there will be more?”

“Everywhere.  It’s the new method of intelligence gathering, and how easy is it to get everything you need to know about someone?”

“Gonna tell Joey?”

“Maybe.  He might think we’re paranoid again.”

“Maybe not then.  We’ll send a coded message.  That’ll get them thinking.”

I nodded.  I picked up a flyer off the floor.  Another new Surgery in the next town.  Chinese doctors. 

I showed it to Melinda.  “Infiltration by stealth.”  She sighed.  An intelligence agent’s work was never done; they just moved into surveillance. 

After all, who would suspect two old over-the-hill retirees?

…

©  Charles Heath  2026