The dietician called me in a half hour before my doctor’s appointment because we “needed to talk.” I say the dietician instead of my dietitian because every time I go to see the dietician for my health program they send me to a different dietician.
This dietician, was a dietician I had not yet met. She seemed solid, serious but also nervous (it was in her eyes). She sat me down in her office, equipped, I was surprised to see, with wide, generous windows and room enough for a table, functional chairs and a large desk.
(I have been in professor’s offices that were little more than storage closets, little less than repurposed cloakrooms.)
“We’re here today because your husband emailed us on your behalf.” There were, she went on, issues he wanted me to discuss with the dietician, a dietician, which today was this dietician. The whole thing was wildly conspiratorial, especially since I know my partner did not (and would not) go behind my back and rat me out, least of all to the/a/this dietician. Anyone.
Whoever that patient was, she was not me, a patient but not the patient under scrutiny.
I asked the dietician to check my file again.
I was right: I was not the patient she thought I was.
She took a closer look at my file.
“You’re doing great!” Then before she could stop herself: “Why are you even here?”
I was then shuffled over to the doctor’s office (not so big or generous of windows, but it had a better view and a larger desk), and was told by this doctor (there are two) that she was “actually not too unhappy” with my progress.
I was then sent on my way, back out to the ether only to have to come back to see them again in a few weeks.
Them, they, whomever they happen to be that day.
Wonder who I will be?