The radio station initially hired me as  a part-timer, so I didn’t qualify for insurance with them.  Having no other insurance outside 99X, whenever I felt under the weather I would go to an urgent care clinic, although back then we called the clinics a “doc in the box.” Not meaning to be derogatory to the fine physicians who spent time there, but these clinics were usually small walk-in sites in shopping centers, nothing like the bigger facilities of today. And they cared for people without insurance.

 

Perfect timing isn’t usually recognized in the moment, but looking back I realize it was perfect timing when 99X made me a full-time employee just months after my initial hire. As is common with new employees, benefits wouldn’t kick in for a few more months so when I felt a cold coming on just shy of my twenty-seventh birthday I headed straight to one of those small clinics. I learned when I was young that my body wasn’t built to fight infections easily, so I was often on antibiotics. When I walked into the clinic that day, I assumed they would give me a prescription and I’d be on my way.

 

But I realized this might not be a typical visit when I noticed the frown on the doctor’s face while he was taking my blood pressure. I had already peed in a cup for them as part of the examination, and this routine visit was no longer feeling so routine. The doctor released the air pressure in my cuff and tried it again, but his expression never relaxed. As he ripped the Velcro from the cuff and swung his stethoscope around his neck, he seemed to hesitate.

 

Finally the doctor asked, “Do you smoke?”

 

Embarrassed, I admitted I did. I could tell he felt he was on to something now. He told me my blood pressure was too high for someone my age—too high for someone any age, really, since it read 210/140.

 

“You’re in stroke range,” the doctor explained. He then suggested I take some blood pressure medicine he would provide and come back tomorrow to repeat the process.

 

“And no more smoking.”

 

Nodding, I took the medicine and thanked him. Apparently my cold was just that; it required no treatment other than fluids and bed rest. But the blood pressure was something to worry about. I couldn’t help but think back to the times I spent with my ex at her mother’s pharmacy. Seems my blood pressure had been high for years and I didn’t know it. I was shaken enough to throw my cigarettes out my car window into the parking lot as I drove off. I have never smoked again. 

 

The next day was no different. Despite having zero cigarettes and taking blood pressure medication for twenty-four hours, my reading was just as bad. By this time the doctor also knew that there was protein in the urine specimen I had given him the day before. I nodded as if I understood but had no idea what that meant. I had never really understood why they made you pee in a cup at the doctor, but apparently it’s for a reason. The clinic doctor suggested I talk with a nephrologist. I had no idea what that meant either. Upon seeing my confusion, he explained something could be wrong with my kidneys.

 

Kidneys? What did they have to do with anything? The only thing I knew about kidneys was the term kidney punch from boxing. Other than that, I had no idea what these organs did. I explained to the doctor that I didn’t have insurance, but I would in a matter of weeks. He told me to make an appointment with a nephrologist as soon as my benefits kicked in. The doctor had to repeat ni-fral-uh-jest a few times for me to understand what word he was saying, but I assured him I would.

 

****

 

The radio station was near Northside Hospital, so I booked an appointment there when I became insured. I was sitting on the table in a paper shirt when the nephrologist walked in. He smiled, checking out my chart.

 

“What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

 

I was already tense and felt worse upon these initial words. I was young but had enough experience with hospitals and doctors to recognize when someone was not on your side. Humor was not what I needed. What I yearned for was a guiding hand to lead me through this completely surreal experience that I had not shared with anyone yet, but that’s not what I got. Instead I got a guy who decided to flirt his way through the appointment.

 

He couldn’t let go of his fascination of my youth and at times acted like I didn’t need to be there. I suppose his behavior should have given me hope that I was experiencing a minor issue, but at that point I had not really considered it could be anything but minor. I trusted there would be a reasonable explanation and I would be done with this blood pressure thing once and for all. I suppose I was also surprised that I was there at my age, since most everyone else in the waiting room resembled my parents.

 

The nephrologist had me lie down as he examined my breasts and abdomen. For any man reading this, it is common procedure for a doctor to examine the lymph nodes under your arms and a quick sweep of your breast tissue for any lumps or swelling. What’s not common is for a doctor to leave your paper shirt open when they finish. I lay there exposed after his examination as he explained what was next.

 

“Oh,” he said flippantly, as if just now noticing my boobs were staring at the ceiling, “you can close your shirt.”

 

He took some blood and said I would need to make another appointment to get the lab results. I didn’t want to return after that initial experience but wanted to get the remedy and be done with nephrologists. That follow-up visit had a completely different feel, though. The doctor was still somewhat dismissive but the flirting was over.

 

“You’ll need a kidney transplant in the next five years.”

 

I cannot tell you anything else about that visit, as I don’t remember what happened after the doctor said those words. I’m sure he babbled on about what the labs showed, but again there was no sense of education or nurturing. It was far too to-the-point, and all I wanted to do was get out of there. I also didn’t believe him since my initial visit gave me no reason to respect this doctor, and I was angry he was even suggesting such a dramatic thing like a transplant.

 

So I left the office. And I reported the nephrologist to the American Medical Association on behalf of any other women he might make feel uncomfortable. At the time I was more concerned with sexual harassment than the idea I might actually be dying.