A Strange Encounter
by Julia Johnson
Personal Statement:
For context, the story is ~700 words and is based off of probably the strangest encounter I've ever had working at a gynecology clinic during my gap year. It has stuck with me to this day, and I hope that the story conveys the same sense of haunting and discomfort that I have experienced since. The story is not meant to speculate or sensationalize, but rather to convey my feelings on the matter, and how sometimes we're reminded that all the things we hear about online or in the media occur somewhere in the real world, and how that "somewhere" may be right in front of us.
“That was weird,” you said.
A sigh of relief escaped my body. I had been desperate to say something, but I didn’t have the courage. I was worried that you’d ask me to elaborate, and I was aware of the weight that came with my true thoughts on what we had just witnessed.
“What kind of mother calls her daughter stupid like that?” You asked.
Unfortunately, I knew a few. But, of course, we both understood it wasn’t just that.
It was the proximity of the two, the intertwinedness of them both. The way they entered the room, the daughter looking to the floor, her mother’s hand guiding her to the exam table, a grip on her shoulder. The urgency of the mother to answer a question, before apologizing and allowing the daughter to finish the response.
At first, I appreciated her self-awareness. She understood the need to humble herself when she wasn’t the patient. But after twenty minutes of repeating the same mistake, I became desensitized to the permutations of:
“Ah! I’m sorry I talk so much. I’m just worried about my daughter, but, of course, she should be the one to tell you what’s going on.”
I chastised myself for being suspicious. I knew nothing about them and was deluding myself into seeing things that weren’t there, enabling myself to assign meaning where it didn’t belong. I’ve always been prone to overanalyzing.
But, then, you gave me a look. A look that asked: Do you see it, too?
I wonder if you had been planning it all along, offering her that water bottle at the beginning of the appointment. Or maybe I was giving you too much credit. But, then again, she had joked about having the “bladder of a squirrel,” and perhaps the decades had made you clever in ways people wouldn’t expect.
It didn’t matter. Thirty minutes later, she asked to use the bathroom, and where you would normally have escorted her yourself, this time you called a nurse.
Time was precious, wasn’t it?
The door clicked behind her and you seized the opportunity.
“Did you do anything interesting over the summer?”
“What do you like to do in your free time?”
“What are your goals for the future?”
“How’s life at home?”
“Do you have friends? Surely, a twenty-six-year-old like you must be getting up to something!” She laughed. A calm, inoffensive laugh.
I searched desperately for something there, something that was maybe being said without the use of actual words. I don’t know why. I’ve always been prone to overanalyzing.
“No, most days it’s just me and my mom.”
The mother came back. A notably fast trip, compared to most middle-aged women, I thought.
You carried on with the appointment, and before we knew it, they were gone, prescriptions refilled and referrals sent out.
When we went out in the hall, you were silent. I waited for you to say something. Eventually, you whispered.
“That was weird.”
Maybe it was to me, or maybe it was just to yourself. But the nurse overheard and was curious why we were so hushed.
She had mentioned that the mother seemed anxious when they found that the bathroom was occupied. She had rushed to the next bathroom at the other end of the hall. Then again, maybe she just really had to pee. I was always prone to overanalyzing.
But, at this comment, you had stopped typing.
Perhaps, I had a right to be worried.
The environment stood still. An eerie energy filled the space.
It was funny, and I think you thought so too.
Everyone knew those things happened somewhere, but it was always out there, wasn’t it?
Some place nebulous and ephemeral, halfway in our reality and halfway in our collective imaginations, a shared hallucination inspired by the cumulation of news articles, gossip videos, and court documents.
But those things didn’t happen here.
No.
Never here.
“I’m adding something to the note,” you said, “in case…” You shook your head. You didn’t know how to finish the sentence. We never saw them again.
Julia Johnson is a second-year medical student at NEOMED
