Waiting Room Sittin’

4x4 rows of plastic chairs
easy to sanitize, I suppose
curt and to the point
conversations reduce patients
to numbers
where is your identity?
My identity as a woman?
As a fat woman?
A fat woman about to get medical treatment?
Oh, you just mean my health card and license
To prove that I’m a human,
and not just a number, after all
Sweet and sour Christmas carols play
over the speaker
an odd juxtaposition to the clinical whiteness and intensity
that permeates the walls
Hands clutch coats
Clutch hope
Clutch fear
Shuffled into a new room
But not before weighing of course
Will this number impact my treatment?
Will they see me beyond it?
Will I be encouraged to slice my stomach in half
In order to appease the BMI Gods?
Or will I be treated like a human?
Of course I ate right before
as though 2lbs of undigested food will make a difference
since I’m in the "obesity” category
They take my word on my height
but on the weight
interesting.
New room calms fears a little
I’m treated to watercolor paintings of bodies being bodies
A uterus dripping blue and pink paint
and a Safe Space sticker prominently in eye view
of the patient’s chair
Well done, I think to myself.
Hopefully it’s not just for show
Hopefully that sensitivity rolls over to fat bodies
There’s no Christmas carols here
Just silence
and my own thoughts
and words
and fears
and anxieties
I’m not even worried about test results or body issues
I’m more worried about whether or not I’m going to be dismissed
or taken seriously
To be defensive for not
I don’t have time to worry about my actual issue
I hear footsteps
One deep breath in
and exhale…..