There’s a place that needs to be visited, a chore that needs to be done, a place I am lucky to have access to but often dread going.

If I am taking any time off of work, it should be spent curled up in my bed well past 8 AM, with my cat, and some re-runs of 48 hours or Dr. Phil.

But at the doctor’s office, the feeling is uneasy.

Surrounded by other people of all ages waiting to hear their name called. My mind can’t help but try to figure out what’s wrong with each one, why are they here? Receptionists sit behind counters with hand sanitizer, guarding the phones and all the patients’ files.

Finally, I’m called back. I worry if my blood pressure is too high, thus making it higher. “Are you nervous?” The nurse asks.

I wait.

Then it’s all like “Hi Megan, nice to see you, how’s the weather? How’s your job? OK, go ahead and take your clothes off.”

I can never figure out what way the robe is supposed to go on.

But my real problem with the doctor’s office is not the waiting, spent daydreaming and staring at posters on the wall of a set of lungs or a PSA about substance abuse. It’s not the awkward conversation that takes place when being poked and prodded and examined. It’s not even the part where I get blood drawn from a nurse, which I absolutely CANNOT watch take place. It boils down to what is essentially a major part of my personality.

I fear the unknown, and I fear the wait. What if after a routine exam, I get a phone call that something is wrong? I’m that girl that calls the doctor’s office the day after my appointment to see if in fact, my results have turned out OK.

I have been self-diagnosed by several diseases over the years, with the assistance of WebMD, only to be laughed at by doctors and told to go home and stop worrying.

But what this annual twinge of the nerves also brings is a great appreciation of my health–something that I believe many people take for granted. I realize how lucky I am to have access to a doctor. How lucky I am to have what some would consider a luxury to be able to check themselves once a year.

So, after the awkward conversations about the mole on my shoulder, the cells in regions not to be mentioned, and the Vitamin D content in my blood, I will grin and bare it, accepting it as a necessary part of life that some are not lucky enough to have.

And I will no longer trust WebMD.