Channeling George Blanda

Was in to see one of my doctors Monday, actually my primary care physician who feels (I suspect) at times like he's the project manager (being called a project is actually a step up from 'a piece of work' which is how many refer to me), with all kinds other health care professionals more or less sub-contracting on his behalf.

Despite having me as a diagnostic albatross around his career, he's remarkably even-tempered and good-natured, always calling me 'buddy' though I'm sure there have been times he's tempted to call me something else. If you're one of the swarms of people disappointed to learn on a daily basis that I still walk this earth, he is the person most responsible. It's comforting that your animus and antipathy do not upset or influence him. Perhaps some money.....(kidding, I hope).

To go forward, I have to go back: I spent part of Saturday evening with my wife in the Emergency Room. Sigrid violently turned her right ankle while walking across our bedroom in our apartment. The X-rays confirmed that she did some serious damage and her very real pain added to the gathering gloom I always go through as we enter 'The Holiday Season' (capitals not optional). I liked her crutches but concede the best part about them was when she didn't need them anymore.

I was thinking about her and those crutches Monday when one of the practice's nurses, with a pink floral print blouse over florid pink scrubs (with pink rubber-soled shoes), strawberry blond hair and my sister Kara's skin (Kara can almost get a sun burn from a fluorescent light), came down the corridor in search of 'Loretta.' This wasn't the Loretta who "thought she was a cleaner but she was a frying pan" but, rather, a woman of advanced years who was a walking illustration of the word 'frail'.

From the way she slowly walked towards the nurse, I realized Loretta had every intention of remaining exactly as she was, unless or until she improved. No retreat, No surrender looked like her mantra. As the nurse approached, as so often happens in doctor's offices, she asked her "how are you feeling?" not in a diagnostic spirit so much as making conversation between human beings. Loretta studied the young woman for no more than two beats, and offered, responding for all of us at some point in our lives, "I'm still kickin', just not as high."
-bill kenny