It’s that time of year. It’s been creeping up on me, and I’ve steadfastly avoided facing the fact. Only three months left to the end of the year.

It’s time to schedule my annual physical.

I know, I know. It’s covered by insurance, almost free, and will help to pinpoint any concerns.

However, I suffer from white coat syndrome or latrophobia. Latrophobia is derived from the Greek words ‘Latros’ which means healer and ‘phobos’ meaning to dread or to fear. I find this ironic as a Greek hospital significantly contributed to my fear of healers.

When we moved to Russia in the early 90’s, the standard of medical care was a shock. I made my husband promise to never take me to a Russian hospital. Unless I was dead. Then I’d go without a fuss. When we moved to Greece, I hoped things would be different. Unfortunately, some things are eerily the same when dealing with socialized medicine.

Now, I must say for the record, in Greece, the private hospitals are excellent. The private hospitals charge for their services, so many people rely on the state hospital which is very low-cost, or free.

My family generally went to a private clinic. When we applied for our Greek visa, we discovered the requirement for a physical at the state hospital. We pleaded to go to a private clinic but weren’t allowed a choice. It was the state hospital or no visa.

With fear and trembling, my husband and I arrived at the state hospital for our 9:30 appointment. To our surprise, there were 37 other people in line for the same appointment time with the same doctor. The only doctor.

A list of names hung on the exam room door. You went to the restroom at your own risk. If you missed hearing your name called, you went to the end of the line. There were only a few chairs, so we stood packed like sardines in the hall. If one person shifted his position, so did the rest of us.

Finally, my name was called. I walked into the sparsely furnished room where the nurse and doctor waited.

The nurse took command and told me to strip off all my clothes. No one left the room, there was no screen, and the nurse did not provide a gown, sheet, or a fig leaf to cover my American modesty.

I sat there shivering on the metal table, thankful for the blinds on the window. The doctor announced it was time for his frappe/smoke break and left the room. The nurse began the exam while the doctor enjoyed his iced coffee and cigarette in the break room.

A few minutes into my exam, the door popped open. I expected to see the doctor. But no, it was one of the other 37 people in the hall. Evidently, they drew straws to decide who would be the next one to open the door and ask how long until their turn.

And there I sat, in all my glory.

Wondering if there was a lock on the door.

The door opened several more times before the doctor strolled into the room and signed off on his portion of the exam.

Next stop, blood work.

My 37 new friends crowded around the lab door. When the lab tech stepped through the door, everyone turned into game show contestants. We waved our papers, jumped up and down, shouted, and offered our first-born child in hopes of catching the lab tech’s attention. He grabbed the documents of the outstanding contestants, then retreated behind door number 1.

After some time, I heard my name.

I timidly shuffled through the door and hesitantly sat on one of the chairs. The drawing of blood went smoothly, and I had the company of several of my new friends to cheer me on. We were all in this together. Literally together. Packed side by side as several lab techs siphoned off our blood.

Next came the TB skin test. When the nurse completed the test, she drew a circle with a blue ink pen around the injection site. With a solemn face, she instructed me not to wash that arm again until I returned in 3 days to have the test checked. I had an uncontrollable desire to add a happy face to the circle.

Last stop, chest x-ray.

By this time, I’d learned how the system worked. I elbowed politely pushed through the crowd trying to position myself as near to the door as possible. When the x-ray tech appeared in the doorway, I attempted to attract his attention. I went for the sweet, gray-haired, motherly persona. He grabbed a few of our papers, then retreated.

When the x-ray tech called my name, I stepped through the door and found myself facing the x-ray machine. I knew what was coming. I stripped to the waist, then stood at the x-ray machine. No screen. No paper gown. Facing the door.

Right on cue, the door opened…… “Is it my turn?”

Thus ended the day that 37 strangers saw me in my birthday suit.

I may wait until December to make my appointment.