Snick, snick, snick, snick.
The nurse’s shoes make an odd sound against the linoleum as she leads you through the hallway. It’s all white. White walls, white floor, white ceiling. She opens a door and gestures you inside with a smile.
Even her teeth are white.
You stand just in the doorway as she bustles in. In the small room the starch smell of cleanliness is strong on your nose.
The nurse takes a hospital coat – or is it a gown? – from the table and turns to hand it to you. You take it, your pulse rushing through your veins, and the scratchy blue material hangs limp from your hand.
‘I’ll leave you to get changed,’ she says, ‘the doctor will be with you in a moment.’
She smiles again, white teeth flashing, kind eyes crinkling. Your hands clench around the blue coat-gown as you nod, unable to get the words out of your throat to ask how long, exactly, the doctor will be, or if she’s sure you’ve filled out all the necessary forms. Doesn’t she need your medicare card?
But she leaves while your throat is still stuck, the door clicking shut behind her. You are alone.
You wait.
The saliva in your mouth grows thick. You think of the little white cups sitting on the table, next to the white water machine in the white waiting room. The first waiting room. The one where you sat for fifteen minutes after your appointment was scheduled, steadily avoiding the other patients’ gazes, and thinking steadfastly about dinner until your name is called and you are lead to your room.
A small, empty, white, room.
You lick your lips and swallow.
Take a deep breath. Hold it. And release. Good.
There are two chairs in the corner, one looks like it’s for the doctor, with its odd shape and its spindly wheels. You drop your bag and the coat-gown onto the other, stationary, chair. Remember that you have to change before the doctor comes and pick the coat-gown back up.
Checking both doors, the one you came through, and the other door — the one for the doctor that is not quite closed – you take another breath and strip off. Praying you haven’t waited too long.
Your heart beats staccato, making you fumble as you pull the coat-gown on backwards. You curse softly, pulling it back off and righting the blue fabric around you. The strings knot together tight and you take another breath, closing your eyes.
They flash open as the silence weighs in around you. You swallow again and wait.
There’s a clock on the wall. You can hear the steady progress of the hands ticking their endless trek around and around and around and you wonder where the hands were when you first entered. Was it on the two or the three? You can’t remember.
You fiddle with the fabric on the gown and look around again.
There’s a table lined with more blue coat-gowns, towels – all white — and other bits of plastic and paper that you don’t know the purpose of. The bed is opposite the table.
White sheets, white pillow, white paper.
You look at the paper, laid down on the bed as protection from something, though you don’t know what.
Do you stand or sit?
The machine the doctor will surely prod you with is by the bed. You take a step in that direction and then pause.
There are voices beyond the door. A man’s voice and a lady’s laugh. No one enters the room though, and you shiver, hug yourself, your shoulders curling inward as you give yourself a squeeze.
‘Don’t be silly,’ you say to yourself and let your arms fall back to your side.
Then you still as the sound seems to echo in the white space, making it seem both bigger and smaller. You swallow again and sit down on the edge of the bed.
Now what?
You think it this time. Speaking aloud is too personal.
Now you debate if you should lie down. No, you decide. Lying down would feel silly when you’re all alone.
And so you wait.
Your hand twitches and your fingers curl around the thin blue fabric you’ve been asked to wear. You wonder what it’s made from. The material is light and offers no warmth. You run a hand along the hem, fingers brushing along the paper cover underneath. Maybe that’s why they put the paper down on the bed, so patients can’t scrunch up the sheets while they wait.
Your arm twitches with a sudden desire to tear the paper away that you shake off. Instead you glance over at your bag, sitting on the chair a metre and a half away. You could be reading your book, or playing a game, or on Facebook.
Someone moves beyond the door and you become still again, ears ringing in the silence. No one enters though and you sigh. Should you get your phone? Without it you are left alone with your thoughts. Though, the doctor surely isn’t far away now.
You drum your fingers on the bed and bite your lip. It sounds odd, your fingers sliding against the paper cover on the bed.
More voices beyond the door, but still no one enters.
More waiting.
The lights are bright. There are no shadows. You wish there were. Shadows would give you some place to hide. Instead there is only white, and you’re stuck under the illumination, exposed and alone.
You wish the doctor would hurry up.
You wish you had gotten your phone.
Silence.
The room is on the cusp of coolness, not quite a pleasant temperature, and you pull the gown tighter and check the knot.
Why do the walls have to be white? Why can’t there be any colour? Any substance? Something better to focus on. Instead there is only white — white walls, white floors and white sheets and you’re lost in all the white.
You think about getting up for your phone again. You roll your eyes, not quite exasperated. You’re too exposed to be fully exasperated. You sigh and tense to get up but at that instance the door swings inwards, freezing you in place.
The doctor has a clipboard and looks up with a distracted smile, dark strands of hair falling across a bronze face. There’s a flash of yellow and your eyes zero-in on the lopsided daffodil pinned on the coat, just below the collar.
The room both expands and shrinks, filling out to normal proportions again as the world rights itself around you.
The doctor looks up, green eyes refocusing, and the smile becomes soft and genuine.
‘Hello, I’m Doctor Reed. Shall we get started?’
Your face muscles relax, releasing a long breath you nod, settling back onto the bed when gestured to do so.
The daffodil shifts, almost waving at you, and a small grin tugs at the corners of your lips.
You are no longer waiting.