The Doctor Visit

 

          I look for the little things when selecting a new Doctor.  I listen to his or her vocabulary, and pay attention to their sentence structure.  I watch body language, eye contact, and of course, attitude.  To me, if the little things aren’t in place, I have a very hard time putting my faith in their ability to control the big picture.

 

          Last Wednesday I met with a specialist.  This Doctor was on time; he was dressed in a way that immediately put me at ease.  For those of you who share the same frame of reference as me, I’d liken him to Perry Como.  His demeanor was calm and although his entire dialog was designed to solicit as much information from me as possible, he splashed it all with warm, friendly tones.

 

          A well-seasoned detective will tell you that everyone slips up on something.  This Doctor was no exception.  There was one simple part of his examination that caught my attention.  Being February, and in Michigan, I tend to dress for the weather.  That particular day I had on an undershirt, a heavy sweatshirt, and a hooded sweatshirt on top of that.  I hate being cold. (or stylish)

When the Doctor listened to my lungs through his stethoscope, he was barely touching my outer, hooded sweatshirt with the little disk.

 

          I couldn’t help wonder if he thought that it was the sweatshirt that was in need of medical attention.  When he wasn’t looking, I tried leaning way over to see my chart.  Maybe there was a clerical error suggesting that I was there for a wardrobe malfunction.   In any case, I was now on orange alert.

 

          By the end of our meeting, that one faux pas remained the only check mark on the negative side of the ledger.  I couldn’t bring myself to fault the guy based on something that I was making assumptions about.  After all, it was me speculating that he couldn’t hear me breathing through three layers of winter garb.  It is, perhaps, all together possible that he didn’t really need to hear my lungs but had gone through health examinations for so many years that to omit something from his routine would be impossible.

 

          I was never good at chess.  I know which way the players can move, and I know you’re supposed to think several moves ahead, but I always seem to get mentally sidetracked by the pattern on the seat cushions, or distracted by the birds I hear chirping outside.  Half of me would have made a good spy.  The other half would have gotten me caught.

 

          I think the problem is that each chess piece doesn’t necessarily know which chess piece they are.  I believe I am a knight.  I can move two squares up, and one over.  In reality I am probably just another pawn.  I can only trudge forward one square at a time, and that’s if nothing gets in my way.  The Doctor, I’m sure, also believes himself to be a knight.   Armed with education he boldly moves two squares forward; ready at a moment’s notice to side step the lawyer disguised as a castle.

 

          By the end of the match the Doctor walked away with all of the information he needed in order to know what he was going to do several moves from now.  I, on the other hand, drove home realizing that I hadn’t any answers; I had less money than I had gone in with, and I wasn’t cured. 

 

 

 

 

          Oh my God!  I Am A Pawn.