Hospital was ready long before I ever was

The nurse who drew my blood was a conductor. By the time I sat down and presented my elbow, she had already peeled two labels, unpacked a sterile needle, and attached it to the first of two vials that had my name on them. Her hands orchestrated with precision born of well-earned muscle memory. She pierced my skin and filled a vial, then filled the other. I had just enough time to recognize that I wasn't in control before realizing my vials were already placed in a rack among the DNA of perhaps a couple dozen patients. With a dab and a nod, my inner elbow was clothed in gauze, and the nurse advised me to hold it there for five minutes, then I was on my way once I regained composure.

Hers was the first of many stations I attended during a recent visit to a private hospital in Beijing for my annual health check. At the check-in counter, I was given a log-in for a WeChat mini program that organized my schedule. Its display cycled through room numbers as I completed each station. Each time I entered a room, the nurse or doctor scanned my phone to synchronize me to their system. Everyone knew where I was going before I did. My body had become a barcode.

At each station, I received a practiced smile and brief instructions. An X-ray technician asked me if I was planning to have a child soon before whisking me into the radiology room where lead coverings were slipped around me. The assistant told me to hold my breath and left the room, at which point I was flashed with radiation and found myself outside again noticing that I needed to refresh the mini program so I could keep up with directions.

At the ultrasound station on the opposite end of the clinic, another doctor asked about my Chinese level. I told him I wasn't very good, mostly to avoid extroversion. He nodded politely and gestured for me to lie down on the bed and lift my shirt. The gel was cold and sticky as the doctor ran his probe across my belly to get an intimate map of my insides. "It's too bad we can't speak English," his assistant whispered in Mandarin. The doctor held his hand still for a moment and agreed. "I know, it's awkward." They shared a cathartic chuckle, which I appreciated, at least internally.

The next update on the mini program was a welcome one."Your appointment has reached its end. Please visit the cafeteria for well-deserved nourishment."

There, a lady with a warm smile proudly presented an assorted collection of food and invited me to choose three items. I went for the sweet bread, yogurt and a shiny apple, which I munched slowly and intentionally. Much of the morning was difficult to recall. I was left with only an impression of movement and latex gloves. But the apple was juicy and crisp. I somehow felt certain that my body had been in good hands.