The receptionist escorts me back to one of the rooms, and Logan hangs out by the front desk. She’s the triage nurse, not just the receptionist.
She takes my blood pressure, pulse, and temperature before disappearing out of the room and leaving me alone.
My blood pressure is a little low, but that’s not unusual for me. I’ve always had low blood pressure. As a teenager, I was told by a cardiologist to load up on salt and caffeine because I used to faint. I’m not sure that was the best advice, but it helped.
A few minutes later, a gentleman comes sauntering into the room.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Reynolds,” he says. “I hear that you fell and hurt your ankle.”
“My ankle is doing better. I tend to be clumsy, and the ogre out in the hallway insisted that I get checked out.”
He raises a curious eyebrow. “Ogre?”
“Logan Henderson,” I say.
“My boss.” He grins and laughs. He’s about Logan’s age, but his hair is a little more salt and pepper, and he has less beard. Logan is all beard, thick, dark, and it accents his features. “How about we appease him for a few minutes and I examine your ankle, and if you can, I’d like to have you walk around on it.”
“Sure,” I say. He looks at my ankle, satisfied that there’s no swelling and it doesn’t hurt when he touches or tries to have me move it. He has me stand.
“Can you walk to the other side of the room and back?”
It’s a small space, only a few steps, so I do as he instructs.
“Good,” he says. “Now, I’d like you to walk a straight line. From heel to toe.”
“Easy,” I say, but when I try to do as he’s asked, my gait staggers, and I sway.
His hands come out to make sure that I don’t fall, but I catch myself.
“Have you had trouble with balance?” Doctor Reynolds asks.
“Not that I noticed.”
“Stand with your feet together.”
I do as he instructs, and the longer I stand, the more I sway to the left and catch myself, moving my legs apart to keep from falling over. “That doesn’t seem normal,” I say.
He doesn’t answer my remark. And as much as I feel like Logan is brooding, this man’s silence wins. My stomach flops.
“It’s because I twisted my ankle. Right?”
“Sit for me,” he says, and gestures to the chair.
He has me follow a penlight and quite a few other tricks. He doesn’t indicate anything specific. “Did you go down the ski slopes?”
“No, I don’t know how to ski. I’ve never been,” I say.
“Do you have a primary care physician?”
“Back at home. I don’t live around here.”
“I recommend that you follow up with your primary care physician when you return home. It could be inner ear related, or they may want to give you a referral to a neurologist.”
“What?” My voice squeaks.
“Are you having any issues with dizziness, vertigo, nausea, or hearing loss?”
“No,” I say. “I’m just clumsy.” At least, that’s what I thought it was. I’m nervous. But maybe he’s wrong. He’s used to seeing broken bones and concussions all day. I’m not his usual type of patient.