I have been waiting in this sterile clinic room for over half an hour. My head throbs relentlessly, and my nasal passages are inflamed and sore. I am utterly miserable and irritable, desperately needing a prescription for one of my chronic sinus infections. Yet, none of that discomfort compares to what I dread most about these appointments.
The Unavoidable Confrontation with Family Trauma
It is that time of year again when retailers send "opt-out" emails, offering to spare my mental health by skipping Mother's Day or Father's Day promotions. However, there is one place where we cannot simply unsubscribe from our family wounds: the doctor's office. The nurse proceeds to check my vital signs, asking routine questions about alcohol consumption, medications, and signs of depression. I answer briefly, hoping to move past the formalities.
The Dreaded Family Medical History Section
Then, she inquires, "Are your parents still alive?" I feel a surge of anxiety, knowing we have reached the part I fear. Sweat beads under my arms as I confirm they are alive. In my mind, I add unspoken context: my mother is happily riding horses in Texas today, while my father has been absent for decades, feeling as though he is six feet under to me.
The nurse rapidly fires questions about my mother's side: high blood pressure, high cholesterol, diabetes? I respond softly, bracing for what comes next. When she asks about cancer on my mother's side, I slump in the chair, giving clinical, emotionless answers. The mouse clicks feel like a ticking bomb as she scans the digital form.
The Painful Void of Paternal History
She continues, "On your father's side: any diabetes, high blood pressure or high cholesterol?" I reply, "I don't know," hoping she will move on. She persists, asking about heart disease, heart attacks, or strokes. Again, I say, "I don't know." As an Aries who typically knows everything and solves problems proactively, this lack of answers is agonizing. I am barely holding myself together, aware it is not the nurse's fault my father vanished 21 years ago.
Finally, she asks the ultimate question: "Is there a history of depression, anxiety or other mental health conditions on your father's side?" I pull down my mask, needing to breathe and be seen. I explain, "Honestly, I don't know because my father has been absent for over half my life. He likely has mental health issues, given I had to file a Protection From Abuse order. I can't imagine anyone who abandons their children is of sound mind. Please, stopping the paternal history questions would help my blood pressure and state of mind."
An Unexpected Moment of Empathy
For the first time, she looks away from the screen, turns toward me, pulls down her mask, and sighs softly. "Welcome to the American family, honey," she says. "So many of us have battled the same..." She trails off, as if her own story is too heavy to share. She stays with me a moment, adding, "Twenty-one years is a long time. It sounds like his loss—for you and your kids. One day he'll realize it, and it will be too late."
After wiping my nose, she exits the questionnaire, sanitizes her equipment, and informs me the doctor will be in shortly. As she reaches for the door, I catch her eye and thank her, apologizing for my difficulty. She smiles gently and replies, "Don't worry about it. It happens to the best of us."
The Lingering Weight of Estrangement
I sat in that sterile room feeling an eternity pass, burdened by the identity of a fatherless daughter. Even at 40, when medical history grows increasingly vital, I resented being forced to acknowledge the void. Most days, I focus on the love of my existing family, but sometimes, routine medical forms dig a hole in my heart no prescription can mend. Despite the frustration of confronting estrangement in a clinical setting, I am grateful for that unexpected moment of grace with a nurse who understood that for some, "medical history" is not just data—it is an inescapable story.
