Passing The Torch
So as soon as I proclaimed that Zumba was the most delightful exercise in the world – I seem to have thrown out my back at the very next class.
I had gone to bed a tiny bit sore, and woke up immobile. For the next three days I inched my way from the bed to the shower to the closet to the car to the office to the car and back to bed. But I didn’t call in sick – I only take days off when I can have fun. If I’m going to be miserable, I might as well go to work.
But three days was enough and I called the doctor. I made an appointment for the next afternoon.
Naturally, the following morning I had a miraculous recovery. But my husband convinced me to keep the appointment anyway. He wanted the doctor to give me the okay to go back to Yoga and Zumba, and I admitted that it might be good idea.
One of the unfortunate facts of growing older is that you begin to outlive (so to speak) all the folks you depended on.
My doctor retired this year.
He was an irascible old coot. The kind of guy that you would cast for a TV show about an irascible old coot doctor. You know the guy: part Walter Brennan and part Captain Kangaroo.
I’d been seeing Captain Kangaroo for more than twenty years. He was my husband’s doctor for more than thirty-five years.
The old coot told my husband to give his successor a chance – that she was smart and current and a very good doctor.
So I went to my three o’clock appointment. My husband drove me. Even though I was feeling quite well, he always wants to take me to the doctor. He’s certain that I will need to go immediately to the hospital – and not only would he want to be there; he’d worry about the car.
I got out of work a few minutes later than I intended, and so my husband drove like a maniac. As if the doctor would send me home unseen if I were a minute late. Because of course doctors never run late.
I saw the doctor at 4:45.
I figured she’d be a little younger than me. Everyone is. And so she was.
Yes, she was Young, with a capital Y. And hip. Fantastically hip. Red funky hair and cool clothes. And what was most incredible – no name tag.
I explained my problem. My former problem. She laughed and said that going to the doctor was just like bringing your car in for service. Suddenly you can’t make the engine do that funny thing you’ve been worrying about.
She thought I must have had some kind of muscle spasm. She also thought I had a very cool watch.
Her recommendation. Skip Zumba for a week, but definitely go to Yoga. She’s a devotee.
She also wants me to have a colonoscopy. Since I’m about ten years late. “I know you don’t feel sixty,” she said. “But well…”
I liked her. It’s comforting to have your doctor look like the Anacin commercial guy. But this woman could be my friend. A trendy, funny, and smart friend. We could go shopping together. Or Yoga.
I’m sure she thought the same thing.
I can just hear her discussing her day with her (very hot, I’m sure) boyfriend, as she relaxes with a glass of Pinot Gris: “….then there was the crazy old lady with the coolest watch…”