Small Talk

My own personal doc? Nah.

Hearing daily updates on the tribulations of Michael Jackson’s physician set me to pondering what life would be like having one’s own personal medical expert at one’s elbow. I think it might be even cooler than a private chef.
I don’t even want to contemplate what it might cost to convince a trained physician to focus completely on me, but I really love the sound of it. And because I really, really love the idea of someone with nothing to do but think about me, me, me and how to make me feel good and healthy all the time, I truly doubt I could keep one on the payroll long enough for my tests to come back from the lab.
I was going to say that my personal doc would need to be cross-trained in massage, and very probably, psychiatry. Then I realized that if I could afford my own doctor, I could certainly afford my own masseuse, counselor and probably someone to trim my toenails. Do I see a slippery slope ahead?
I suspect my current, fairly Spartan attitude about sickness has been fashioned by having little choice. Once you’ve raised your own kids, you tend to ignore any affliction that doesn’t flat-out drop you in your tracks. For years, anytime there were little people in the house “tossing their cookies” and running fevers, my own nausea and fever simply took a back seat. Ah, but now I have time, probably too much time, to dwell on odd and puzzling symptoms. I am also at that age where odd and puzzling symptoms abound. I would, without question, become a ridiculous hypochondriac.
“Hey, doc. What’s this weird little bump on my arm? Well, is it the same thing as this weird little bump on my ankle? Does this mole look like Mickey Mouse to you?” “Why does my toe point that odd direction?” “My right ear is ringing. Well, then why isn’t my left ear ringing?” “My knee hurts. No, not the same place it hurt yesterday – a new place.” “I can’t seem to lose weight. Yes, I take an exercise class. It’s right past the See’s store.” “I got my workout shoes at that discount store. Aren’t they cut
My own personal doctor? I think it is, as they say, “Better I shouldn’t ask.”