Cough Cough

Cough. Sniffle. Sneeze. Sniffle. Shuffling papers. The clicking of the keys on the keyboard.
I know these sounds all too well.
The chairs in the waiting rooms are awful. You’d think they would have put a little thought into the chairs. It’s like sitting on a bunch of Legos. Sometimes they have this really weird material on them that makes a scratchy noise when you move on it. But finally, after endless waiting and playing every game known to man, they call my name.
“Ms. Harper?” They never get my first name right, so they don’t even bother attempting to say it anymore.
I know every step entirely too well. We start our walk to the scales, which I don’t like much, then on to a room.
They’re all the same: tan, with white trim, sometimes a small window (depending on which end you’re on,) a bed with that God awful white paper that makes that crinkly noise when you sit on it, no more than three chairs, and a sink. They do their standard protocol; blood pressure, pulse, and temperature- the whole shebang.
They ask what’s wrong. It’s obvious, but that’s their job. God I hate it. When does...