“The doctor tells you, “Just relax.” For a moment, you wonder if she’s joking. The skin on the back of your legs sticks to the thin paper lining on the table, every slight movement announced by a loud crinkle. The fluorescent lights scrutinize you from the white grid ceiling. You can hear a doctor on the other side of the door talking loudly about the weather, how hot it’s been this summer. There’s a medical student in the room, shadowing. You’re afraid you’ll do something crazy, like faint and pass out. What if your body scares them away from medical school forever? You should have shaved beforehand. Did you wash well enough last night? Did you use soap? You bend your knees inwards towards one another, feet still in the silver stirrups.”
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