I’m Wired
The doctor prescribed something different for my poison ivy. I finally broke down and went to see him after a couple of horrible days slathering all the existing ointments and salves in my medicine chests. I had even self-medicated with some old steroids that I had left from a previous bout of the noxious week. It was old, but I could feel it working. The pharmacy had given me so much of the stuff that the correct course given me by my doctor several years ago used only 1/8 of the prescription. I was confident that it would heal me but, listening to Elisabeth, I thought it prudent to go see my favorite doctor even if it meant I would only get a cursory examination, a proffered cup of coffee (which he has perennially brewing in his examination room. He always offers. I never accept. We just talk. We tell stories. As he talks he flips pages in my file. It is an inch thick, mostly some lab test results, EKG readouts and longhand notes he makes, using his thick, cigar-like fountain pen with a wide nib and black ink. Like his choice of writing implements his surgery is equally dated. Blood pressure cuffs (which is the one test he always gives me), bandages in jars, pictures of his family in clothing from 1984 or thereabouts…and a turn-of-the-century boom-box hanging on the wall. I have never heard anything but German symphonies come out of it.
Out of a desire towards truthful relation ship and respect for his “trade” I told him about the self-medication I had been taking. He didn’t blink. He asked about the dosage. He shrugged and said “Way too light.” I thought he would offer to re-up the prescription so I could get some new stuff and he would suggest a dosage for my condition, which he had barely looked at. It was all over my inside left arm, outside right arm and creeping from my waist to my armpit on my left side torso. Instead he continued to thumb the file and he rose to get himself a second cup of coffee from the carafe. “Are you sure I can’t offer you some of this,”he said pointing at the hot-plate. “I just made a fresh pot.” I declined. As he settled back into his office chair he retrieved my latest blood test results and he began to read out of the file. “Ummm. Hmmm. Umm. Hmmm. Looks like the platlettes are a bit low but the SED Rate is good. You seem to be doing well with the RA. How have you been getting along with that lately?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He sipped and continued. “Your bad cholesterol is a little high but the good stuff is great so the numbers are actually OK. Kidneys and Liver are both fine…(sip, sip).” He put down the cup and opened his computer and began to tap on it. The phone rang. He answered. He had a two minute conversation with someone who was obviously trying to ‘score’ some pain pills. Before he hung up he offered the caller a prescription for two pills but only if the caller would go to an orthopedic doctor-who he recommended-and get his so-called injury properly looked at. Firm and polite doctor hung up and looked at me. “You know what that was all about, don’t you?” I nodded and he nodded and he smiled. The telephone exchange was disturbing but I think the doctor handled it very well. I was anxious to see when and if he was going to get back on topic with my condition. He checked my pulse and B.P.
“I’m going to prescribe something new for your poison ivy. It is a very bad case.” He asked me if I still got my prescriptions at the CVS in Peekskill and I said Yes. On the keyboard he input the prescription and that was the end of my medical exam and treatment. Still, as always, we sat. There might be one or two people in the waiting room but probably not. If there were his receptionist is quite good at keeping them conversing and telling her own pleasant life stories. The doctor and I talked about the past and the future and our families and our common interests, which are actually quite interesting. We are about the same age. American. I think he is Jewish but I have never asked. Just assuming from some small notes of interest dropped like crumbs during our conversations. His wife is German. He visits frequently to the old country and he likes to talk about those trips. I can relate a little bit because I spent a couple of months there years ago. I have no desire to return. He seems to like it there.
Something different in this conversation. He asked for my advice. What did I think about him retiring? I was caught flat-footed. Just as I had been caught off guard that time he began my examination with a question about my impressions of Donald Trump. After five minutes listening to him ask me about my thoughts on the up-coming election and Mr. Trumps qualifications I tried my best to answer in the blandest, uncommitted of terms, that I didn’t want to have him for a president. The good doctor pushed on though and a few minutes later I could tell that he was actually very much in Trump’s corner. As he began to apply the blood pressure cuff he went on about the candidate whom I dislike, disrespect and…no hate would be a more accurate term, and the doctor pumped up the cuff. I tried a deep breath and reviewed my T.M. mantra in an effort to normalize my BP but to no avail. The doctor deflated the cuff and made a note with his fountain pen on the top page of my file. He turned to me and said,
“I should really be prescribing medicine for your blood pressure, it is through the roof!” Still meditating I began to come out of my little politically induced blood pressure haze. We sat looking at one another. I said to him, “Could we could get to that medication, if you don’t have any objection, on my next visit? I said, “ Perhaps next visit ,we could do the blood pressure test BEFORE the political discussion?” He smiled and said “Of course!”
We did talk about his retirement a while this time. I would be very sad if he did. I told him. How I enjoyed the ride over across the Bear Mountain Bridge from Westchester to Rockland on 9W. The rolling hills that descended from the bridge down into that heart of the revolutionary war country. Stoney Point. The old lighthouse and the view of the Hudson past the bluffs and the soaring power lines and the view of Peekskill from up over the river. And across the street from his tiny, office house, his neighbor who stages hand painted signs with quotes from the bible and displays them proudly on the curb so I can get the latest from heaven every time I have to go to the doctor’s office.
I didn’t tell him how much I loved his receptionist’s pleasant attitude and her stories while I waited in the little ante way. The old magazines and the way the entry door opened up into a front yard full of grass and sunshine . I would miss His stories too. His cramped little office in that slightly dingy single-family house in need of a great deal of work and touching up and care. How I liked to know that I could call and get to see him so easily. I even had his cell phone number and how he has urged me to call him if I have a problem. If he were to retire I would have to go to some group of physicians in an icy, modern complex full of cold surfaces and colder people coding and filing and calling and scheduling and never smiling. Doctors would be there but they would be automatons with gears for elbows and wearing glasses that reflect the helplessness of all that is around them. They would be little nothing doctors looking at calendars and computers and listening for the call for dinner announced by insurance company spokespersons who sit smugly around huge boardroom meeting tables in Hartford Connecticut. I hope my doctor will retire some day. Any day he’d like, but until then I will go to him. Just to have a cup of coffee offered to me. Not drinking it, mind you, but just watching him sip his while he pores over my file.
