I want to tell you about the space I almost rented that had visible mold on the ceiling and a landlord who assured me it was "cosmetic." I want to tell you about the perfect medical suite that fell through because the previous tenant had left biohazard waste in the walls. I want to tell you about the commercial real estate agent who told me, with a straight face, that $45 per square foot was "a great deal for medical." The lease hunt has been an education in patience, negotiation, and the creative ways landlords describe problems.
I started looking for clinic space in late March. My requirements were fairly specific: I needed between 800 and 1,200 square feet, with at least two exam rooms, a small lab/procedure area, a reception space, and an office for me. I wanted ground-floor access for elderly and disabled patients. I wanted to be in a neighborhood that felt welcoming, not in a sterile medical park. I also needed the space to allow for medical use, which is a zoning consideration that eliminated more options than I expected.
The first space I toured was in a strip mall between a nail salon and a vape shop. It was 900 square feet, had decent natural light, and was priced at $2,400 per month. The landlord was enthusiastic about having a medical tenant. The problem was the HVAC system, which dated from approximately the Carter administration and would have needed complete replacement before I could meet ventilation requirements for a medical office. The landlord's response to this concern was, "It works fine, we've never had complaints." I passed.
The second space was gorgeous. A converted Victorian house on a tree-lined street, with hardwood floors and built-in shelving and a front porch where patients could wait in nice weather. I fell in love with it immediately, which is always a dangerous emotion in real estate. The rent was $3,800 per month, which was above my budget, and the building had no ADA-compliant bathroom on the first floor. Retrofitting would have cost $20,000+. I agonized over this one for a week before letting it go.
Spaces three through five were various shades of disappointing. One was too small. One was on the second floor with no elevator. One smelled like the previous tenant's curry restaurant in a way that I suspected had permeated the drywall permanently.
Space six was the mold situation I mentioned. Space seven was the one.
It's a 1,050-square-foot suite in a small mixed-use building on Elm Street, in a neighborhood with coffee shops, a bookstore, and a community garden. The building was originally a small office complex built in the 1990s and has been well maintained. The previous tenant was a psychotherapy practice, so the space was already configured for healthcare use and had the appropriate zoning. It has three rooms that I can use as two exam rooms and a procedure/lab space, a small reception area with a window, a private office, and a bathroom that's already ADA compliant. The rent is $3,200 per month, which is right at my budget, and the landlord agreed to a three-year lease with the first month free and a $5,000 tenant improvement allowance.
The negotiation process was its own learning experience. I had never negotiated a commercial lease before, and I'm grateful that my attorney reviewed everything before I signed. She flagged several clauses that needed modification, including the maintenance responsibilities (the original lease made me responsible for the roof, which is not something a tenant should typically bear), the personal guarantee terms, and the renewal options. The negotiation took three weeks and involved more back-and-forth than I expected, but the final terms are fair and I feel good about them.
The total move-in cost was $9,600: first month's rent plus a two-month security deposit. Combined with the tenant improvement allowance, my net out-of-pocket for securing the space was $4,600, which came in under my budget estimate.
I got the keys last week. I stood in the empty suite by myself for about ten minutes, just looking at the walls and imagining what it would become. There's a window in the main exam room that looks out onto a small courtyard with a Japanese maple. I thought about Margaret, the retired schoolteacher with the headaches, and how in this room I would have had time to actually talk to her, to look at her face instead of my screen, to be the kind of doctor she deserved. I might have cried a little. Don't tell James.
The buildout starts next month. I've been meeting with contractors, learning about medical office requirements for plumbing, electrical, and ventilation, and making approximately nine thousand decisions about flooring, paint colors, and exam table upholstery. It's overwhelming and delightful in equal measure. More on that next time.