Being Seen

I’ve never liked doctors’ waiting rooms, especially when I’m scared. One day I was waiting in a doctor’s office in Manhattan to have my eardrum pierced, and the receptionist told me the doctor couldn’t use anesthetic. His assistant would have to grip my head in his hands, and I wasn’t supposed to move; if I fidgeted, I’d lose some of my hearing. This was the sixties, and I was twenty, working as a reporter at a small country newspaper and hiking in the woods every weekend. I’d been reluctant to come into the city to see a specialist.  

I sat in…

Source: Being Seen