When we reached our floor, excusing ourselves around those who had packed themselves tightly in the elevator rather than opting for another "flight," we found an excess of space in the form of an immense waiting room. It had the snob appeal of a library; no one spoke, and few looked up from their magazines except when the nurse would stand by the front desk to read her list of names, after which, a slight transformation of the waiting room would take place as the selected patients strode up to her. Within seconds, the room again reflected studious tranquility and heads sank below the horizon of newspapers or books. In certain situations humans were so predictable. Here they were so reserved, so introverted, so unapproachable that smiles were left untaken simply because they were not seen; if one existed in such a location, he would believe that cordiality was dead, severed from the world. I looked around and wondered whether anyone would change his disinterested stare if a loud sneeze issued forth. I doubted it. And with that, my name was called. Forming a troupe of several people the nurse escorted us to individual dressing compartments and we were issued hospital gowns. I had been instructed to undress to the waist only, since my test was a chest X-ray, and then wait in the claustrophobic booth until further notice. I finally unlatched the door and sat in the corner seat of the booth with the door agape, however, disliking my inability to see the nurse should she have happened by my door; I did not wish to be forgotten in the maze of hallways and felt more secure with a view. I had to know "what was going on"; blindness would be paranoia in its highest form for me. Finally my name was called and I popped my head inquiringly out of the door, hoping that I could attach a face to the voice I'd heard. A technician in a blue jumpsuit was waiting in the intersecting hallway, and I followed him to a bench where I sat until they were ready to take my X-ray. It seemed such a dismal place; there were so many doors, and so few lights. A door whipped open. "Lauren Isaacson?" I stood up and filed after the woman who led me into a dreary room that somehow reminded me of a bomb shelter. "Put your chin against the bar, here, shoulders forward, and take a deep breath." at which point she ran behind a heavy wall and peered out at me, continuing, "hold it now... hold it" Click! Rumble! "Keep holding..." The machine silenced, rendering its five photographs of my lung onto the X-ray plate. "Breathe...." The woman was so businesslike; I wondered how often she repeated those words... I wondered if she said them in her sleep.