Annual Checkup

I'd been putting off my physical for three years. The usual excuses, too busy, too healthy, too stubborn to admit I might need medical care. But when my insurance threatened to raise my premiums, I finally caved and made an appointment with the first doctor who had availability.

That's how I ended up in Dr. Amara Singh's exam room, wearing a paper gown and regretting every life choice that had led me to this moment.

She was younger than I expected, early thirties, with dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail and brown eyes that radiated warmth and competence. Her white coat had "Dr. A. Singh - Internal Medicine" embroidered on the pocket, and she moved with the confident efficiency of someone who had done this a thousand times.

"Ms. Foster? I'm Dr. Singh. Sorry for the wait, Mondays are always chaos."

"It's fine. I've been avoiding this for three years, what's another twenty minutes?"

She laughed, a warm, genuine sound that immediately put me at ease.

"Three years? Let me guess, you're one of those 'I'll go to the doctor when something's actually wrong' people."

"Is that a medical term?"

"It should be. Half my patients fit the description." She sat down and flipped open my chart. "Let's see what we're working with."

* * *

The exam was routine, blood pressure, heart rate, reflexes, the usual poking and prodding. But there was something about her bedside manner that made it feel less clinical than I expected. She explained everything she was doing, asked permission before each step, and actually listened when I answered her questions.

"Any pain or discomfort I should know about?"

"Occasional tension headaches. I work at a computer all day."

"We'll check your posture. What about stress? Sleep? Exercise?"

"High, insufficient, and nonexistent."

She laughed again. "Sounds like most of my patients. At least you're honest."

"No point in lying to my doctor."

"You'd be surprised how many people do." She made some notes in my ch

art. "Everything looks good so far. I'm going to recommend some bloodwork, but I don't expect anything concerning. You're remarkably healthy for someone who avoids doctors like the plague."

"It's a gift."

"It won't last forever. Take better care of yourself, Ms. Foster."

She handed me a sheet of recommendations, sleep hygiene, stress management, exercises for desk workers. Normal stuff. But at the bottom, in handwritten ink: "Follow-up in 6 months. - A.S."

I found myself looking forward to it.

* * *

Six Months Later

I came back for my follow-up. And then another. And then another. I was seeing Dr. Singh every few months for things I probably didn't need appointments for, a cough that wouldn't quit, a knee that felt "weird," questions about vitamins that I could have googled.

Somewhere along the way, I'd stopped going because I was concerned about my health and started going because I wanted to see her.

"You again?" She smiled as she walked in. We'd developed an easy rapport over the past year, almost friends, if professionals could be friends. "What is it this time?"

"Insomnia. I can't sleep."

"Stress-related?"

"Probably."