This is a long post, scroll to bottom for summary
It was time for my routine STD check. After calling a variety of possible clinics I decided upon SF City Clinic simply because it opened at 8am, perfectly early enough before work starts. Waking up way to early, I arrived 15 min before the opening. Fuck, there is already 10 people waiting in line. 10 people as diverse as you can get. Old, young, Black, Latino, Asian, all socio-economic statuses except the uber-wealthy (they have std checks at home). Right at 8am they let us all file in. Manning the counter is a middle-aged black woman with blonde highlights that match the yellow speckles on her blouse. As we form a line before the red stripe that “ensures” privacy she calmly says “next,” quietly waits for you to walk up and confess to whatever sins you’ve made. Without a flinch or change in intonation she asks, “do you have any symptoms? Is this your first time here?” then gives you a number or letter. However, when I approach I say, “I’m here for a routine check up,” without asking if I had been here before she simply gives me number and informational sheet and gives me that look that tells me to walk away. At this point I’m not sure if it was “better” that I got a number or letter.
We all sit in a DMV-like setting. Some more nervous than others. Some more “anonymous” than others. Number 36 is a tall, skinny, blonde man, he was the “lucky one,” lucky in that he was first in line. They called his number from the front of the room and he follows, only to return moments later. Five minutes pass, “number 36″ is called and he walks back to the front hallway. Again, he returns moments later. Another five minutes and a door open behind us all, an older black woman in a lab coat soothingly breaks the silence, “good morning, number 36?” I’m reminded of a weird mash-up between the films Brazil, Hitchhikers Guide, and the opening scene to Joe vs the Volcano. If only Abe Vigoda was here to offer me orange soda as a gift, if only.
It’s difficult to figure out if the jittery guy sitting next to me is nervous because he’s symptomatic, had a risky sexual experience that he regrets or just doesn’t like waiting. He lifts the newspaper to his face over and over, stands up, paces, and sits down until his letter his called.
As an unspoken rule, eye contact is forbidden. I tested this theory with a few people. Yep, verbotten.
I try to get figure out similarities between those who got numbers, nothing visible. I guess the letters are reserved for those who are symptomatic.
To the side of the waiting area there’s a poorly painted mural of what seems to be a tropical jungle. At the top is a painted flowing banner which reads “if it’s magic why can’t it be everlasting?” this can be construed in a multitude of ways, some more encouraging than other.
After waiting 50 min I’m called for the first time. The first time they call your number is to obtain your general information to an older Asian woman who boarders on sassy and maternal. She tells you to create a password so that you can confidentially check your results online within a week. At the end she asks if I’d like to make a $10 donation. In my own way I figure this is a way to grease their palms and bump me up the list, getting me seen earlier. I oblige.
On one of the cubicle walls facing the waiting room is perhaps the most bizarre public health ad campaign posters I’ve seen. It reads “dogsaretalking.com — get tested for syphilis” with a paw print where the o’s should be. Accompanied by a picture of a frenchie, dachshund, lab and bulldog, all of puppy age.
A heavy set clinician pops her head out of a door, glasses hanging down her nose. She calls out “42.” no answer. “number 42,” no answer. She sighs, “four-two.” yep, this reminds me of the mash-up film I mentioned earlier.
30 min after I was first checked in, a doctor calls my number. An incredibly personable physician, with sensitivity, care and a non-chalant attitude she took my sexual and drug history. Who I’ve slept with, what sexual acts, how many people, what kind of drugs I’ve taken and how often. At which point she would get excited (but not sexually) about a drug I had taken or sexual experience I’d had. She did an incredibly good job at making me feel like I was talking to a long-time friend about my personal history. She didn’t seem too worried by my history and made a few jokes that weren’t canned, but sincere. Handing me a cup and brown bag, she asked me to fill the cup with my pee-pee as she finished her side of the paper work. As I walked to the restroom, the same heavy set spectacled physician could be heard sighing “fourTY two!?” I come back and give my doctor my pee cup, she checks my hands for syphilis sores (none), chest for rashes (none), and my diiiiick for abnormalities (none).
I then wait again, this time for 10 min to get my blood test, not a bad waiting period. My blood was taken by a Puerto Rican version of one of my sweetest aunts. As she withdrew my blood she spoke to me in a thick accent rattling on about life, giving me tips, telling me to save money and travel. With ease she finished up her phlebotomist task and accented it with minorly complaining about working for the city.
In Summary
Overall time: 2 hours.
I had an overall positive experience at the San Francisco City Clinic. However, I came in knowing that I would be spending a lot of time waiting. The employees ranged from disgruntled city workers to sincere physicians who were excited to work with “the community.” Bring a book and expect to deal with the basic beauracracy. If you are able to go to Magnet, Planned Parenthood or any other clinic during the middle of the day, I’m sure it would be worth while.
If you have decent insurance, you might as well take advantage of that and get tested there. However, overall SF City Clinic was not bad at all. They also have certain hours on Tuesdays and Thursdays if you currently have symptoms.
SF City Clinic
www.dph.sf.ca.us
356 7th St
San Francisco, CA 94103
(415) 487-5500
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