My doctor sends me to Brooklyn for an abdominal aortic aneurysm screening. As instructed, I fast for six hours beforehand. I don’t even brush my teeth, for fear of swallowing toothpaste and screwing up the test. I wear a Covid-era face mask to avoid breathing on anyone.

The journey takes me to Boro Hall, a part of the city I’d not explored before. Judging by the style of pedestrian dress and the Hebrew lettering on some of the buildings, it appears to be an Orthodox Jewish neighborhood.

I enter an enormous, shabby waiting room—empty except for me, a receptionist, and a warehouse’s worth of old furniture. The couches are patched with duct tape. There are signs on the tables forbidding you to sit on them. The receptionist informs me that I can in fact drink water without spoiling the test results. She gives me a cup.

After some minutes, a technician comes for me. She’s soft-spoken and quietly friendly. Wears a pink headband and a long dress.

The examination room and the equipment inside it remind me of OB/GYN visits when my ex was pregnant. In those tests, we wanted to see something. In this test, I suppose, we do not. I lie on my back. The jelly is cold.

The exam takes 40 minutes. The only point of visual interest in the somehow-coffee-stained drop ceiling above me is a circular, flat light fixture composed of concentric glass rings. It is like the eye of God, peering down at me. Not a personal, loving God, mind you. Or maybe it’s more like the hard stare of a universe that, if it took note of our trivial human suffering, would be indifferent to it. I breathe in and out, as instructed.

The technician takes several dozen pictures. There’s sound, too. Occasionally I hear the roar my blood vessels make, chugging busily. My blood vessels don’t share my worries. They just do their work. Some of the sounds they make are rather rude. I suppose that’s good. I like to think the boys in the engine room are somewhat boisterous. The rudeness sounds like health.

It’s time to stop staring at the light, sit up, and wipe the goo off my belly. The technician gives me a large piece of special medical paper designed for this very task.

After I leave, a radiologist will review the pictures and send a report to my doctor.

I have a half-dozen other tests to take in the next few weeks. X-Rays, scans, even a lung screening. Ordinarily when a doctor recommends a half-dozen tests, I shove the paperwork in a corner of my desk and forget about it. But this time, I decided to be an adult and follow through. I may even balance my checkbook one day.

I exit the mostly empty medical facility, call a Lyft, and stand on the sidewalk a while, taking in Boro Hall. On the ride home, I let my gaze caress the changing neighborhoods. Somehow the whole city seems more interesting. Or maybe more alive. Like air after rain. Even the familiar landmarks as I near home strike me as beautiful and reassuring.

Home again, I wash my hands, clean last night’s dishes—the kid and her boyfriend cook late at night—pour my first espresso of the day, and knock it back with plenty of fresh, cold water.

I text my friend, to whom I’d complained earlier about the instructions against tooth brushing. He asks, “Did they give you a mint?” I respond with a “ha-ha” emoji.

Much as I enjoy my job, am grateful for my health insurance, and appreciate the wonders of modern medicine, I decide to take the rest of the day off. You know, for mental health. 

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