I love old people. Sounds a bit patronizing I suppose but I’m becoming one of them, so I have vested interests. And anyway, even the most reticent among them have had a unique, personal view of history. A well tested perspective of Time and its evolutionary ravages. They have grown an almost uncanny ability to step outside and look at their lives as one might their house from the sidewalk.
Talking with them is an adventure, a journey. A long journey. I have travelled part way along the collective path –the common trail from which each has wandered looking for their the way -their destination- but I am ever fascinated with their routes. Never bored, yet usually intrigued by the roundabout ways they have found to describe it. Camouflage it, really. It is seldom a direct road –more frequently a series of detours that require patience to navigate.
As the family doctors who refer to me get older, I sometimes think they have my name written down on some old Rolodex in the top drawer of their desks, so it’s readily at hand when an elderly patient whose baby I may have delivered asks them if I’m still in practice –or at least, still alive. I may not remember them, but for some reason they remember me. It’s nice to be remembered, but it usually comes with an expectation of reciprocity. No one, especially of advanced years, wants to walk down a one-way street. We all crave familiarity. Recognition. Memories we can share.
Unfortunately, charts are not kept forever and computerized records are relatively new kids on the medical block. So when I see them, it’s frequently with a blank slate -a tabula rasa as it were. But when I think more clearly about their reactions to this cognitive gap, I have to admit that most of them are not at all nonplussed. They merely tell me all about it; they fill me in about the intervening years. I love it; it’s like going to a history tutorial.
Emma. The name rang no bells, sounded no alarms; I had no idea if I’d ever seen her before, in fact. I glanced at the referral letter before I went to meet her in the waiting room: Please see this delightful, loquacious lady for a gynaecologic check. You saw her 10 or 15 years ago apparently. Well, no clue there. No old chart. No information about why or exactly when I’d seen her before. I have to admit I cheat before I greet them in the waiting room –I look at their old records and try to pretend I remember some of the details about why I once saw them. I’m sure they all know I do that, but it’s an acceptable crib, I expect. No one calls me on it. They pretend that they have a special place in my practice. My memory. Everybody wants to pretend that there is a statue of them somewhere. A commemoration. But there was nothing on Emma. I would have to plead unwilling and embarrassed ignorance.
“Doctor,” she said in a strong, loud voice as soon as she saw me. “Dr. Stegal was sure I saw you before…” she said, all the while hoping he was wrong. I could hear it in her voice.
She was a thin woman with tightly coiffed, short white hair that she wore almost like a toque over her ears. Quite becoming, I thought: it enclosed her face like one of those little ornate frames you see sitting on desks all over the world. I have to admit I didn’t recognize it, but wrinkles are a good disguise. Like one of those Russian dolls, her eyes were set within wrinkles within yet more and deeper grooves on her skin when she smiled. She never stopped smiling.
I led her into the consultation room and sat her down opposite my desk. As soon as she settled in the assigned seat, and adjusted the bright red dress she’d worn for the occasion, her face lit up with the expectation of a good talk with an old friend. She couldn’t help looking around the room for a moment, no doubt comparing it with scraps of memory. Her smile waxed and waned in concert with fragmented recollections; her eyes would focus on a picture and recede within to riffle through her files then emerge, satisfied she had classified it correctly, then fly to another branch, another picture, another piece of my aging, chipped furniture. Her eyes said she was beginning to remember the old visit, but her face told me she didn’t know what it had been for.
“I see you still have that old metal desk, doctor.” This was clearly an opener. A gambit to facilitate my entrance into her world. I smiled lamely; what could I say? I liked the desk. “My daughter reminded me of the desk, and those little magnetic signs you had on one side. Fridge magnets she called them.” She shifted on her chair and craned her neck to look at the side near to the door. “Yes, I see they’re still there.”
I shrugged good-naturedly. “I’d forgotten about them…”
“But you certainly have a beautiful office, doctor,” she added as if I hadn’t spoken. “I remember that picture behind you. The woman only partially drawn?” she said as if I’d forgotten that as well. “Do they still make those?”
I wasn’t sure if it was a real question, or merely an observation that I hadn’t much changed things over the years. I turned around to look. It gave me time to consider how I was going to lead her into telling my why she’d come to see me.
“I saw one just like it in Kresge’s a while back…” she said to soothe things over. It must have been a while back because I think the store chain changed its name to Kmart before my daughter was born.
“Well, it’s good to see you again, doctor,” she said tentatively, getting comfortable in her chair again. “My daughter says to say hello…” She didn’t really finish the sentence, but did temporarily immobilize me with a stare that dared me to ask her who her daughter was.
“Oh, that’s nice of her,” I responded, proud of my quick, noncommittal answer. “Please say hello to her for me.” It was lame, but I was trapped by her eyes. I had to say something.
Emma’s face changed from happy to wicked. “Do you remember her?” I shrugged. “I told her you wouldn’t, but she wouldn’t believe me. ‘After all the problems I had, he’ll remember, mom,’ she said.”
I could see the hint of a smile trying to force its way through her wrinkles. It looked like work.
She shrugged resignedly, as if her shoulders had felt the weight of the world before and this one more disappointment was not going to do her any harm. “Judy was always a drama queen-always worried about something. Always thinking she was sick, ” she said, sighing loudly. I assumed Judy was her daughter, but it opened no doors. I mean how many Judys are there in an average gynaecologic practice? “I remember when she was a little girl, Henry made her a tiny doll house to distract her, and she’d lie on the floor for hours and play with it. Henry was good with his hands. He could fix anything. We never called a plumber, you know. Didn’t have to… Well there was that time something got stuck in a drain and we had to call one because he had one of those metal snakes, but he was way too expensive. And it was just hair that was blocking it.” She stared at me again briefly and only let go when I smiled in submission. “It wasn’t Henry’s hair, though; Henry was bald as a table…”
I smiled again and picked up the referral letter and examined it. Maybe that would work. “Dr. Stegal says…”
“Well, he shouldn’t really say anything. I never really saw him for more than two minutes before he suggested I go to see you…”
I sensed a perfect, but rare opportunity. “And what did you want to see him about?”
She sat up straighter on the chair and crossed her arms. “I didn’t want to see him, doctor…”
“My mistake. Why did you go to see him, then?”
She settled back into the chair; she was looking entirely too comfortable. “Well Judy came over a couple of weeks ago…” She considered this for a moment. “It was just after the anniversary of Henry’s… departure. So I guess that would be three Saturdays ago…”
It seemed important to fix the date, so I waited patiently. I stole a glance at my watch; my secretary would be panicking if I didn’t surface pretty soon. I prodded her gently. “Why did Judy come over to see you?” A stupid question, I suddenly realized. I could hear the answer before she even opened her mouth.
“We were going to go to the cemetery and then stop at his favorite restaurant for lunch.” She focussed her attention on my face, so I couldn’t interrupt her train of thought. “Have you ever eaten at the MacDonald’s on Fourth?” When I didn’t reply –didn’t even try to reply- she finished her thought. “Well, we both ordered the chicken nuggets and we started talking about the Menopause.” I could hear her capitalize it. “She asked me what mine was like. Well, I said, it was a long time ago… ‘And did you have any problems with it then?’ No, I said, but then I remembered –I’d had a bit of bleeding three or four years after my monthlies had stopped. That really seemed to alarm her. ‘Did you go to see the doctor?’ For some reason, I couldn’t remember if I had, so she immediately made a phone call to Dr. Stegal. ‘You can’t let these things go,’ she said. So, I saw Stegal –but hardly long enough for him to open my chart.
Now we were getting somewhere!
“But now that I’m here, guess what..?” Her expression had changed.
I hate it when people do that. I’m supposed to be asking the questions.
“When I saw the office today, it began to come back to me.” I put a purposefully puzzled expression on my face and left it there. “I’d seen you for the bleeding. You did a biopsy and cleared me. ‘Don’t worry about it’, you said. ‘Get on with your life’ –I remember you said that, and I thought it was so nice. So sensitive. After all the pain of that biopsy, it was the right thing to say. Almost an apology…”
She was about to continue when I interrupted as gently, but as quickly as I could. While she was taking a breath. “So is that why Dr. Stegal sent you to see me today?”
“I think so. The only person he really spoke to was Judy…” She looked around the room nostalgically for a moment and then at me again. This time with some concern on her face. “We don’t have to do another biopsy do we? Judy thought we would.”
I graced her with my most benevolent smile. “Have you had any more bleeding, Emma?”
She shook her head solemnly. “None since I saw you and that was probably twenty years ago.”
“Then I think we can just watch things for now. I closed her empty chart and got up from the desk –but slowly, so she wouldn’t think I was rushing her.
Her face turned sly. “But Judy has. Now she wants to come and talk to you.” She stopped when she saw my expression change. “Oh not now! No, she has an appointment for next month.” She got up from her seat and walked toward the door. Suddenly she stopped. I hoped she hadn’t changed her mind about leaving. But her face, when she turned to look at me, was beaming. “You look worried, doctor,” she said with obvious concern. “Don’t worry, I’ll come with her and help to explain things.”