{"id":85895,"date":"2015-05-19T17:48:35","date_gmt":"2015-05-19T21:48:35","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=85895"},"modified":"2015-05-19T18:30:18","modified_gmt":"2015-05-19T22:30:18","slug":"bus-pass","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2015\/05\/19\/bus-pass\/","title":{"rendered":"Bus Pass"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"L0052260<\/a><\/p>\n

I was anxious about the doctor\u2019s appointment. Not because I thought there was anything much wrong with me, but because I knew they\u2019d want to do \u201cblood work\u201d as part of the \u201cworkup,\u201d and that the moment they brought out that thing they use to tie you off, and I saw the vials, my vision would blur, my extremities would tingle, and I\u2019d faint like a neurasthenic fool.<\/p>\n

Pull yourself together, I thought. That was the old you. Now you\u2019re a grown-up woman of the world who\u2019s not ruled by her neuroses. To prove it, I added a silk scarf to my ensemble; I draped it in a fashion I\u2019d recently noticed on a hypersophisticated, unneurotic mannequin. <\/p>\n

I ran into a neighbor at the bus stop. \u201cWhat happened?\u201d she asked, and I looked at her blankly. \u201cDid you break your arm?\u201d she said, indicating my scarf. \u201cYou\u2019re wearing a sling.\u201d<\/p>\n

On the bus, I stuffed the scarf in my bag.<\/p>\n

Things were going well. Insurance information had been proffered. Forms had been filled out. \u201cYou didn\u2019t note your grandfather\u2019s cause of death,\u201d said the nurse.<\/p>\n

\u201cUh, suicide,\u201d I said. \u201cKind of. I thought it didn\u2019t really count towards my medical history. I mean, I guess it is, but just not the \u2026 visible kind.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll just write \u2018deceased,\u2019 \u201d she said.<\/p>\n

In the examination room, I experimented with the ties of my gown for a more flattering neckline. I perused the People<\/em> I\u2019d brought from the waiting area. I asked the nurse about the care of her rings; I asked the doctor about the prevalence of gluten intolerance. Tests were taken. Nodes were palpated, blood pressure measured. I could do this.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt may well be an iron deficiency,\u201d said the doctor, \u201cbut I\u2019d like to rule out Lyme and blood-sugar imbalances. Just some basic labs.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course,\u201d I said. \u201cSounds like a plan.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t worry,\u201d the nurse said, \u201cI\u2019m very good at this.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sure you are!\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

Twenty minutes later, I lay on the table in a dead faint. They had had to abandon the blood drawing. I lay there for a while to get my bearings and sipped some apple juice.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt happens,\u201d they told me. But I could see they\u2019d lost any respect they had for me as an adult. I hoped the nurse didn\u2019t take it personally; she\u2019d been very deft.<\/p>\n

I was still pale and shaky when I boarded the bus back home, and felt no compunction about taking a seat. The bus began to fill as we moved west; kids were getting out of school. Soon, every seat was taken. There are two signs one sees in the front section of city buses. The first says, WON\u2019T YOU GIVE YOUR SEAT TO THE ELDERLY OR DISABLED?<\/small> But then under it, THESE SEATS ARE RESERVED FOR THE ELDERLY AND DISABLED<\/small>. Sort of a good-cop\/bad-cop dynamic.<\/p>\n

Then a guy got on. He was in his thirties; he looked able-bodied enough. He was wearing a Rangers jacket. He planted himself in front of an elderly woman with a cane who was in the reserved section. \u201cCan I have your seat? I\u2019m disabled,\u201d he said baldly. Then he said it to a man with crutches and a child of maybe two. All refused him, save the baby, who ignored him completely.<\/p>\n

He moved back, to the regular seating area.<\/p>\n

\u201cCan I have your seat? I\u2019m disabled,\u201d he said to me.<\/p>\n

For a wild moment, I fingered the scarf in my bag and debated slipping it over my arm.<\/p>\n

Instead, I muttered, \u201cFine,\u201d and stood in that shaky, jointed part of the bus by a bunch of uniformed schoolkids.<\/p>\n

Sadie Stein is contributing editor of <\/em>The Paris Review,<\/em> and the <\/em>Daily\u2019s correspondent.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I was anxious about the doctor\u2019s appointment. Not because I thought there was anything much wrong with me, but because I knew they\u2019d want to do \u201cblood work\u201d as part of the \u201cworkup,\u201d and that the moment they brought out that thing they use to tie you off, and I saw the vials, my vision […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":178,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[13115],"tags":[18180,12627,12511,12582,17466,18182,14945,18181],"class_list":["post-85895","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-our-daily-correspondent","tag-appointments","tag-buses","tag-city-life","tag-doctors","tag-fears","tag-neuroses","tag-phobias","tag-scarves"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nThe Fear of Doctors Is Very Real<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"In which Sadie Stein gets blood work done\u2014or something like that.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2015\/05\/19\/bus-pass\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Bus Pass by Sadie Stein\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"May 19, 2015 \u2013 I was anxious about the doctor\u2019s appointment. 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