It’s cold and flu season in Sweden, so it’s not uncommon to be a little sick right now. After a month or so of not being able to shake this kind of strange feeling, though, I decided to go ahead and book an appointment with the doctor.
I took the morning off work and took the bus to the office. Once I had slipped on those omnipresent disposable shoe sleeves, I shuffled in and sat myself down next to two obviously pregnant women who looked at me, looked at my stomach, looked at me, then went back to sipping their glucose mixtures.
A little while later, the doctor came out to the waiting room and called my name: Katreeen Reuterswärd? (Never Katherine, always Katreen. It doesn’t bother me because I love it when my first name sounds like latrine.)
Together we went into the examination room and she did all the usual things: took my blood pressure, calculated my BMI, listened to me describe what symptoms had led me to book the appointment. Finally, she sat back in her chair and just looked at me with some pity in her eyes.
I got nervous. Read more » >>