One of the many joys of losing your job is losing your employer-sponsored health coverage. For me, it has necessitated a whole new parade of specialists for one thing or another. The comparable PPO was $1,500 a month for me and my daughter, so that was a no-go without income. The HMO - half the cost - means I had to find new people for most health issues I was actively dealing with.
Anyway, this is not a bitch about US health insurance. That would be far too long of a post.
The point is, I had to find a new Gyno for my HRT because Midi.com was no longer covered. And, trust me when I say, we need to keep the HRT going for the collective well-being of everyone around me. Nobody wants that level of rage resurfacing.
Which is how I found myself repeating my usual parade of symptoms to the nurse practitioner at a women’s wellness center my doctor referred me to. I had my written list. I had brought the boxes and bottles for my existing prescriptions. I had the name of the urogynacologist and physical therapist who had been treating me and, of course, the last day of my period, all at hand. I was armed with justification and proof because, as a woman going to the doctor, this is what we must do.
I knew I was in the right place when the NP stopped her frantic note-taking, put down her pen, looked me in the eye, and said, “Thank you. Thank you for being so organized. I can tell you’re on top of things and are doing everything right to feel better.”
She refilled my prescription from her iPad while I sat there - so efficient that I got the text from CVS pharmacy while we were speaking. She ordered some bloodwork. She set up a referral for a new physical therapist. She listened, she took notes, she looked me in the eye, and not once did she try to push psychiatry, antidepressants, or antianxiety medications on me. She just believed me and moved into action. It was a beautiful thing.
I don’t know what kind of response this elicited from me, and I don’t know exactly what I was doing or saying, but I know I was both impressed and relieved. So, it was as we were exiting the exam room that she stopped before moving onto the next patient, turned to me in the hallway, and said, “You know, you’re a really nice person.”
Stunned, I thanked her, reciprocated because it was true, and left that place on a high.
Sitting in my car, getting ready to drive home, I thought about how simple of a thing that was and how much it had made my day. Having a stranger acknowledge how I intentionally move through the world, with care, kindness, humor, and genuine intent to connect meaningfully to each person I meet, meant a lot.
It doesn’t matter how I feel on the inside; I always have conversations with the people in the checkout line and try to make people smile. I go out of my way to compliment people, whether it’s the tortoiseshell glasses of the Nurse Practitioner or the detailed decoration on the nails of the receptionist. When I am networking with people virtually, as I often find myself doing these days, I intentionally say something funny or self-deprecating to make people feel at ease, always offering help and never asking for anything in return. I text my neighbor next door regularly to appreciate her for the community garden she has grown single-handedly next to her unit, which brings me so much joy every time I stroll past it. I IG message my daughter’s friend to check in because I know her dog injured itself and was in surgery. I remember my cousin who is buying her first home in the UK and send her regular messages to see how it’s going. I have a reminder to check in every two weeks with my friend whose family is going through a series of very scary health crises.
It’s important to me to take time, to remember, to slow down and see the person in front of me, and find a way to make someone’s day a little bit better if only for a second. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no Mother Theresa. But I am, indeed, a really nice person. And it meant a lot that a stranger saw me and acknowledged me for intentionally projecting that.
When you’ve been knocked on your arse a bit by life, it’s the small things that buoy you up.