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“Sure. So, shall I lie down or something?” I comply, ready to face whatever lies ahead.
“Let’s do the urine sample first.”
I watch as Dr. Carraway retrieves a pair of latex gloves from a nearby cabinet and begins to methodically prepare for the examination, her movements precise and unhurried. It’s clear she’s accustomed to dealing with a wide range of patients and their unique idiosyncrasies in here.
“Am I the only female resident?” I ask, even though the guys told me I am.
“You are.”
“But, there have been other women before me?”
“You’re the first.”
“Why?” I whisper.
“I don’t know. Shall we?”
I can’t tell if she’s deliberately trying to change the subject or get me looked at so that she can get back to whatever work she was doing when I interrupted.
Dr. Carraway retrieves a small plastic cup from a drawer and hands it to me. “If you could, please provide a urine sample in this cup. It will help us rule out any urinary tract infection.”
I nod, taking the cup from her. It’s a simple task, but my trembling hands make it feel more daunting than it should. “Sure,” I mumble, heading toward a small bathroom adjacent to the examination area.
With a sense of relief at having a moment of solitude, I collect my sample, praying that at least this part of the ordeal will yield no surprises. Returning to the examination table, I place the cup on the designated tray she points to.
When she nods, I gingerly make my way to the examination table. Its cool, sterile surface is a stark contrast to the tumultuous thoughts racing through my mind. As I settle onto the table, a chill races up my spine, and I try to keep my breathing steady, masking my vulnerability with a facade of confidence.
Dr. Carraway, now fully gloved, examines the surface wounds on my arms and legs with a professional detachment. The stinging pain as she cleans and inspects the injuries is a stark reminder of the chaos and violence that brought me to this place.
“These cuts look fairly superficial,” Dr. Carraway notes, her voice a soothing balm as she continues her examination, her gloved fingers deftly inspecting the wounds. “They don’t look infected, but I’ll clean and dress them for you. It’s crucial to prevent any potential infection.”
I offer a weak but genuine smile, appreciating her care. “Thank you. Can you look at the burn on my arm, please, too?”
“Of course,” she replies with a nod.
I hesitate, then carefully pull up my sleeve. The doctor’s eyes widen in momentary shock, but she quickly regains her professional composure.
“That looks... sore.”
“It’s the itching that’s driving me crazy,” I admit.
“You mustn’t scratch it,” she cautions. “If you break the skin, the risk of infection is much higher.”
“I can’t help it,” I confess, my fingers curling with the need to scratch right now. It’s as though the simple act of uncovering the burn to show her has awakened the fiery itch once more.
Dr. Carraway offers a reassuring solution. “I can give you some ointment. It’s a gel-based formula, better for burns.”
“Okay. Thank you,” I say, hastily pulling my sleeve back down so that I’m not tempted to defy her and scratch myself until I bleed.
“Of course. It’s what I’m here for.”
I pause, feeling a sudden rush of vulnerability. “I mean, thank you for not judging me... It’s hard being the only girl in here. No one to talk to.”
“Kayla, you can always talk to me.”
“I can?”
“Of course. As your doctor, I’m here to look after more than just your physical health.”
