You wait patiently, realizing the irony of the statement, until they finally call your name, albeit incorrectly.  The nurse walks you into a cold little room and points out the paper gown, instructing you on how to put it on.  A "gown";  what an odd term.  You model your fashionable ensemble in the mirror, trying to see the similarities between your gown and the gowns you just paged through in the magazine.  Despite your best efforts to clamp the back of the open paper cover, pinching it closer to your hips, you are fairly certain you would make the "worst" list.  The nurse knocks on the door, surprising you from your runway fantasy in the mirror.  She instructs you to sit on the examination bed.  She runs you through all the basics, having you pee in a cup, checking your blood pressure, reflexes, listening to your heart and even drawing a vial of blood for some more in depth tests.  She leaves you alone, closing the door behind her.  You sit nervously with your legs dangling off the table, the paper robe spilling out around you in a crinkly tent.  You entertain yourself by reading various posters on the wall.  Everything from domestic abuse to proctology exams.  Finally, after a millenia, a knock at the door promises to release you from your anxiety.  The doctor enters the room, clipboard in hand. 

 

"So we aren't feeling too well I hear?"  He exclaims.  

 

WE?  You wonder.  I feel like shit, but as far as I know, WE aren't feeling anything.  

 

"Describe your symptoms?"  He requests, taking his pen in hand and looking down at his clipboard.  

 

"Describe my symptoms!  Describe my fucking symptoms!  Lets see, I've explained my goddamned symptoms to three different people, peed in a cup, been poked, prodded and violated and every single word out of my mouth or fluid out of my body is recorded on that fucking clipboard you're holding.  So you tell me!  What are my fucking symptoms!"  Is what you wanted to say.  What you actually say is "Nausea and dizziness".