If things had gone differently in America, the doctor I saw this week would have been the perfect genetic outcome of many strains of Anglos mixing with various nations of Native Americans. He has salt and pepper hair, pale naturally tanned skin and eyes that twinkled as they drooped down at the sides. Both times he wore a bolo tie with a respectable sheeting of turquoise.
As the nurse left the room on Monday and asked me to move from the chair to the examination high chair, I debated if I should stay properly upright. I swayed a bit and flopped onto my back. When the doctor came in, I slid an elbow under me and propped myself up, looking up with bloodshot eyes and unkempt hair. He cocked his head and waved cheerily, “No – please!”
The good news was that it was the flu, he said and continued that, the bad news was that it was the flu. He leaned against the counter; did I want a couple of days off?
Boy. Do I. The last couple of weeks have been rough.
Short version: My grandma had a several stroke paralysing her mind and body and my Mom moved back to Germany.
The second time the doctor came in to fill a prescription for antibiotics, he apologized and asked me to stand and move to the scale. The scale was at the number left by the nurse when she wieghed me at the beginning. He hemmed and hawed a bit.
“Since you’ve been here in November you’ve lost eleven pounds.”
“It’s been a rough three weeks.”
He opens my file and looks at me somewhat sadly, “Are you going to be able to gain that back?”
I gave him my best sick person gleeful smile, “Oh don’t you worry about that.”