It’s spring—a time when reminders of my annual medical appointments pop up in my text feed like the daffodils outside my writing room window.
Doctors’
offices remind me of police stations, which remind me of crime fiction. I don’t
want to play the protagonist in a real-life thriller if I can help it. Since achieving
a certain unmentionable age, when I hear myself say, “Uh-huh. Dr. Smith,
Thursday the sixth, 11:45 a.m. Got it,” I know there’s a chance I’ll end up in
a specialist’s office.
I
recall when my retired inlaws put up a large calendar reserved for medical appointments in their kitchen. Now that I've started highlighting my doctors’
appointments in bright orange, I see why they did that. If I see the appointment coming, I've got a few days to get my story straight before the gumshoe in the white lab coat starts asking questions.
Despite that preparation time, I always confess to something I meant to keep secret. Maybe it’s the way they send out an informant to put me on the scale just before my interview. It puts me
on my back foot so that I feel guilty when I’m left alone in the cold interview room waiting for the lead detective to arrive.
Armed
with evidence of my weight, it’s not hard for the investigator to get me to cop
to other things, like how much coffee I drink or how little I exercise on the days I write. Unlike a tag team of trenchcoat-wearing detectives with little
brown notebooks, the lone medic in white plays both good and bad cop while typing
out everything I say.
The
detection rate for murders is 90%, but the detection rate for cholesterol must
be higher. That’s according to an informal survey of friends my age now. At seven years old, I feared the word “shot” the way I now fear the word “statin.”
My instinct as a writer to say whatever I'm thinking often leads to a specialist referral. For example, a few years back, after an eventless annual physical, I noticed aloud that my previously shapely legs seemed to be “looking more and more like my grandmother’s legs.” Out came the referral pad. As the song goes, the leg thing's connected to a neck thing. Now I’m serving two to five with a specialist whose prescription—after getting a blood sample and checking me for neck polyps twice every year—is for me to drink more water.
Before a friend's primary care physician died a few years back, all the patients received invitations to reminisce at a gathering in a downtown bar. Their final prescription? Get good and drunk. That sounds like a detective to me.
I don't know how these Sherlocks--criminal or medical--feel after another day of uncovering humanity's foibles and weaknesses. They
deserve to tie one on at happy hour. It’s nice to know that one practitioner of
the art of detection thought his patients deserved that, too.
