Deem me Ready

By Anne Chudobiak

When I learned this past summer that my family doctor had unexpectedly retired, I felt vulnerable, exposed, as though the curtains on my windows had been replaced with threadbare sheets. It wouldn’t do, not at all. I started making phone calls, but the answer was always the same: “Not accepting new patients.”

“Relax,” I told myself. “You have a wonderful dentist. The funniest accountant. A good endocrinologist.”
But I was on edge.
“How old,” I wondered, “is the pediatric opthamologist, anyway? Sixty? Sixty-five?”

You’d think I’d be happy to encounter Dr. K at a party, and I was--for a while. She was young--my age?--and available. A general practitioner. But then she said something that, if not exactly stupid, was less than wise. “I’m trying to teach him my language,” she said, indicating her two-year-old. “I’m supposed to speak it on Mondays, but I don’t know. It’s not working.”

“I like my doctors to be older,” I told a friend later. “At least ten years. With kids who are bigger than mine.”
“Hmm,” she said. “When I see a doctor, it’s for a diagnosis, maybe a prescription.”
The next day, I called Dr. K. My appointment’s in December.

The medical system is no place to look for advice.
The government has made other provisions for that, not the least of which is the QWF mentorship program, where you can apply for a professional writer to hold your hand as you emerge, a doula for the arts. I might give it a try. Why not? It’s got to be easier than finding a doctor. Right?

p.s. The deadline is October 20. QWF, update your site! (Edited to add: Omigod, they did.)