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Dear Doctor— You used to come to our
house when I had whooping cough or when mama couldn’t get out of bed.
You knew when I was due this pill or that one, even asked about my great
aunts and uncles and their own particular ailments. You were like a
member of the family and had time to talk to us. Times change, I know, and
either a lot more are sick or hypochondriacs. Maybe there’s a shortage
of doctors. Maybe the cost of living is so high now you have to have
more patients than you have time for. Maybe there’s so much red tape
from the government and insurance companies you don’t have time for
your main profession—healing. It takes a long time to
get your phone line and to make an appointment. After an hour or so in a
crowded waiting room, I get called back and a nurse with my file in her
hands asks, "And what are you here for today?" By now I’ve forgotten
and hoped she would know. We finally figure that out together. She takes
me to another room down the hall to wait my turn. You are still the
friendly face when you arrive and ask how I feel. A sign on the wall had
urged me to tell you. But it’s hard to remember and describe that pain
that woke me up in the middle of the night, that time I got dizzy for no
reason. I do my best and you write me some prescriptions or send me to
some specialist. While I’m still trying
to recall the main reason I came, I begin to feel I have to hurry. Maybe
someone sicker than I needs you and I’m taking up time and space, like
I’m slowing down an assembly line. You are still the friend
I like, in whose hands I put my life. I just wish there was an answer
and you had time to find it. It couldn’t just be nostalgia and old
age, could it?
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