Personal Physician

Imagine a world in which you feel bad and do not know why, so you walk to your doctor’s office, often gazing at the blue sky, and watching birds, red, yellow, blue fly by, zipping fast, darting here and there, so fast, so sure of flight in their short lives. They have no purpose, you think. Where are they going? Why?

You are smart enough, of course, to know you are possibly a little depressed. The walk helps, but you still need to see your doctor, your personal physician, because your shoulder aches, you think you have something frightening and gross growing between your small toe and the next, and you are, you admit, afraid of hurting.

Imagine that your doctor meets you outside, in the grassy area surrounding his “office,” meeting you as you hike up and say hello. Imagine your doctor smiling, shaking hands with you, placing a hand on your shoulder and inviting you to sit at a picnic bench, to enjoy the nice weather, to chat about why you are so blue. Already you start to feel better. Already, your shoulder relaxes, and your breathing slows, as he asks what’s troubling you.

Then you tell him your shoulder hurts, about your toes, and oh yes, you forgot about the tooth – cracked, you think, hurts every time you chew. You look up, see another bird, bright red. You remember a long ago winter, when you sat likewise with your doctor, beneath his skylight, snow piled high but melting from the warmth. You remember how he helped, steered you to a new path, a slight change in direction.

Now, you tell him, you think, maybe you need help, again. He opens his glowing notepad, non-glare screen, and he taps the screen using an electronic pen, an e-pen, and the images roll out onto the picnic table, all of your past ailments, and successful treatments, thoughts, philosophies, and faith, the universe of success that defines you.

You open your mouth and he notices, comparing the images to your sad face, showing that your jaw is swollen, and your shoulder hunched. He asks you to stand and walk, and he sees that your gait is askew. He asks you to read along with him, aloud, your previous history, and your tendency to worry, and to make physical symptoms worse or to create new physical symptoms when things are troubling you. What else, he asks, is going on in your life.

Time seems to suspend; you and your personal physician are talking about you. The attention, in itself, feels good. But you find it difficult to admit that you have been feeling alone, lonely even, and he waits while time creeps along. You tell him that you don’t want to be a bother, and don’t want to keep him from his other patients, that you understand he had to make a living. No bother, he tells you, as he has everything he needs, and his purpose is to help others with their ailments, that he himself, must see his personal physician because he cannot treat himself. Odd thing, he says, about human beings. They need each other.

Suddenly, you begin weeping. No reason, you say, you apologize, you know, of course, that weeping, especially for no reason, is a sign of depression, and that you can to deal with it, you are tough enough to suffer through it. You say that if not for the physical ailments, you’d be fine. You tell your doctor to just fix the pain, and you will be on your way.

He smiles. He scrolls through the screen, your personal health history, and he matches it closely, but not totally, with the health history of others, and with the treatments accumulated over centuries of living. Then he asks you again, what’s troubling you, so he can personalize your treatment.

This time you add more to your list, and you breath easier, and you speak of the unspeakable, of your mother and your father passing away, too young, too soon, you say, and you wanted them to live forever. You shudder at the ravages of age, their slow deterioration, and their desire to die at the end. He reminds you that living to one hundred and twenty, in mostly good health is good. And he says it again, nodding his head, good, and asks you to say more. You joke about other patients whose illness must be obsessive talking. Your doctor speaking generally, tells you that yes, he did have other patients like that. One he recalled not long ago who was doing just fine now, often talking to squirrels, and the squirrels seemed to listen, and to actually enjoy it, a treatment only newly found for obsessive talkers.

Then your personal physician asks to look at your tooth directly, so he can match it with his notepad scan, an old technique that serves its purpose, he says. Some of the oldest techniques are the best. Hmm. He tells you that the tooth has broken, but not to worry. He could create a new one. He entered “new molar.” You can’t remember the actual code for the molar. But you trust your doctor to get it right. You remember you grandfather telling you of a time when you couldn’t trust your doctor and you can’t imagine how that must have been.

Then you take off your shoes and you both have a laugh about the organisms trying to hitch a ride between your toes. He looks you in the eye, and says, your worry invited them there, you know.

Yes, you say, you know. You laugh. And then he says, okay, no bother. He taps out a recipe with his e-pen, and you hold your palm to the picnic table image, the words and the measurements tickling your skin, assuring you that you will be able to splash water on it and read it later. After following the recipe a few times, you will remember it. The recipe is an invitation to your hitchhiking organisms to get off your toes and live in a pond where they belong. You ask if the recipe will work for a friend who, you say, was complaining about a similar ailment. Your personal physician says that it might, but never as good, because the invitation for the organisms to leave would be coming from you and not your friend. The organisms might get confused.

The new tooth arrives, falling out of the sky, and your personal physician says lifts a panel on the picnic table, pulls out his laser, flashing, and sparkling. It’s a beautiful instrument, and your mouth drops open in appreciation. Suddenly your old tooth is gone. The empty socket feels gaping, huge, canyon-like, but just as quickly, your new tooth fills the space, and your swollen jaw recedes. You run your fingers across your cheek and chin and you smile.

You are of course feeling better now because, and you remember it well, the feeling of hope fulfilled, of attending to a problem, taking the right steps, by walking to your doctor, and getting the personal attention you needed. Not that you couldn’t, or can’t work out problems on your own, just that sometimes a doctor is needed. As he had pointed out, human beings have problems solving themselves. They often need help from each other.

You tell him that you are feeling much better and want to leave, to enjoy the walk home, to meet the challenges of the day, to greet your children when they return from their education adventures, and to see your wife again. Even though she was right in front of you, you had trouble seeing her. Now she will be smiling, anxious to see you because she knows you will be better and you can revel in your love. But your doctor stops you. Wait, he says, what about that shoulder. You tell him it feels fine now because you are no longer carrying such a heavy load. Even so, he gives you a personal green drink recipe and tells you to drink it occasionally, once a day for awhile, to get you feeling strong and energetic again.

You thank him, and he tells you to stay healthy, and hopefully, he won’t see you again for another five years or so. You look back at him. Was it five years, you ask. He smiles and nods.

On your walk home, you understand exactly why the red, yellow, and blue birds zip and soar so happily and effortlessly through the clear blue sky.