Today’s trip to the allergist was nothing out of the ordinary.
Entering the office complex right off Montgomery Street, my sneakers squeak on the marble floor. The small lobby is decorated with ornate gold and black accents. I smile at the doorman, tilting my head. He pushes the elevator button for me.
“Good morning, ma’am.”
“Hi there. Really pretty outside today, right?”
“Absolutely, no complaints.”
“Well I hope you have a chance to step out in the sun today,” I say.
“Oh I will,” the doorman responds lightly.
When I’m in the right mood, I love small talk. It’s cute and endearing and makes the air of a room feel softer. People tend to do nice things for you in return, like an instant karma, circulating good gestures.
The brassy gold doors open to reveal furniture pads covering the walls of the elevator, hiding ongoing construction that never seems complete. The doorman extends his arms to prevent the doors from closing as I walk inside. A farewell grin, the doors close, I stare ahead for four flights as the old elevator shakes. I exit onto hard gray carpet, take a right down the hall, and enter the allergist’s office.
After I check in, I’m led to an empty examination room to wait for the nurse. Familiar posters and diagrams line the room.
Finding The Inhaler That’s Right for YOU
Normal Lungs Versus Asthmatic Lungs
I’m Having An Asthma Attack - What Do I Do?
Legs swinging off the edge of the bed and spine slouched, the casualness of today’s visit has not always been the case.
After my first asthma attack at two years old, visits to the allergist became customary. My elementary school years were spent with nebulizers covering my nose and mouth over morning cartoons, afternoons in the school nurse’s office after running too fast in P.E., and a routine of medications before bed.
I was prescribed Singulair at eight years old, what soon became my silver bullet medication. Its integration into my little immune system allowed me to slowly transition from nebulizers to daily inhalers and run laps at school without needing to slow down.
Since then, I have taken that same pill every night for 18 years. While my chronic asthma has long been considered “controlled,” my body, quite literally, now runs on Singulair. Previous allergists in my adulthood have tried to wean me off the medication, only to leave me in an agonizing state of withdrawal, constant sneezing with the most insane body aches.
Taking a pill has become so deeply ingrained into my nighttime routine (staying consistent on the birth control pill is childsplay). It even offers a sense of closure to the day. The notion of relying on a pill forever doesn’t scare me as much as the feeling of sucking air through a straw, eyes wide, wheezing through inhales and exhales.
And so, my criteria for finding an allergist now: please don’t change my prescriptions. Luckily, my San Francisco allergist fits the bill.
I’m staring at a poster on the wall that reads My Asthma Doesn’t Define Me as the nurse enters the room. She has me complete a series of breathing tests, routine for an asthma checkup, that require me to exhale as hard and fast as I can into a tube connected to an archaic handheld monitor, like an iPad for toddlers, but the late ‘90s. Sometimes there’s crude pixelated images of candles that I have to blow out, or the homes of the Three Little Pigs. This time I have to blow a cloud across a finish line. I don’t find it as compelling as the others.
I’m then led to my allergist's office to go over the results. The blinds are drawn and framed photos of his grandkids cover the walls, offcentered. His heavy dark mahogany desk centers the room with two chairs opposite his massive leather chair, his body draped over, hair white, eyes and cheeks sunken by time. He’s sweet in an earnest old man way, but the room is dim and always smells musty.
“Hi there, so good to see you as always, “ I coo as I sit in one of the chairs, drawing out my syllables.
“Oh hi, Miss Caroline. Always so good to see you,” the allergist replies. I’ve never seen him anywhere but at his desk, or even below his waist for that matter. I notice the brightly painted wooden clock and a jester doll positioned at the front of his desk. They catch my eye each time.
I know the test results are going to be as good as they always are, but it doesn’t hurt to try and be the most positive and charming patient he’s seen all day. Maybe he’ll forget the fact that Singulair is the cornerstone of my immune system.
Manipulation? Who’s to say? Flirting with your doctor? I’m not to judge. Attracting good energy? There’s no arguing against that. Standing up against medical gaslighting? Rise up. Fourth wave feminism? All about it.
“So how’s your asthma been treating you?” Before I respond he adds, “Remind me where you live again in the city?”
“Asthma is feeling under control as always, barely using my inhaler! I’m in Hayes Valley, lucky to still live in the same spot!”
“And your job, what do you do again?”
“I work in public relations!”
“And what does that entail? Do you have everything you need to succeed in your career?”
“Basically I talk with reporters all day, and I’d say so!”
“That’s so great. And where do you live in the city?”
I pause. “Hayes Valley, great location!”
“Oh, I love that area. Sometimes my wife and I go there to shop. And what do you do for work?”
I smile widely, reading the situation while playing it cool. Remember the goal: a Singulair refill. “I work for a public relations agency! Pretty interesting work!”
“Sounds interesting! I think I have a friend from college who worked for an agency.”
I open my mouth to respond, but the allergist cuts me off.
“No, maybe high school. Oh I can’t remember. Well your test results look great, I’m really not concerned about you, just keep doing what you’re doing. How long have you been in the city?”
“About three years, no plans on leaving yet!”
“What a cool place to live in your 20’s. What part of the city are you in? Oh and remind me what you do for work.”
My patience is slightly thinning, but I’ve flirted a lot more for a lot less, so I persist.
“I’m in Hayes Valley, and I work in public relations. Really like them both!”
“That’s so great you like your job. I’m 83 and I have no plans to retire. Working keeps me sharp.”
He peers down at his notes to write something, the pen shaking in his hand, but stops short.
“So is there anything I can do for you today?” my allergist asks me. Finally, my moment.
“I would love to get a refill on my Singulair, it’s really working so well for me.”
“Oh sure thing,” he replies as he pulls out a prescription pad – yes, a prescription pad – and writes me up for 10 milligrams of Singulair, each night with a glass of water.
“Take this to the ladies up front and they’ll help you out.”
“Ugh, you’re the absolute best. Always so fun to catch up.”
“We could keep talking all day, couldn’t we?” he responds with a soft laugh.
“You know I’d love that,” I respond as I sit up from the chair. “Well, let’s do it again in six months!”
Holding the prescription in my hand and closing the door behind me, I giggle under my breath.
Then I remember that people the doctor’s age run our government.
Jesus.
Oh well, at least I got my meds.
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