When she took me on as a new patient she went to the trouble of explaining to me how seriously she took it that all of her patients undergo yearly general medical examinations.  I had put it off for the last two years; the length of time she had been my doctor, after my previous family doctor of 40+ years' duration had retired, (and he too used to cluck at the all-too-few times I would require his professional services, let alone undergo general examinations) but she kept reminding me.  Yesterday's appointment was for that purpose.

I couldn't help evaluating her throughout the process whereby she evaluated me.  Of course, my evaluation of her was strictly superficial, lacking any authority and simply out of curiosity.  Curiosity about the resolute determination some women are endowed with, to lead normal family lives, be mothers to young children, and still, somehow, manage a medical practise.  She looks now quite different from when I first saw her a mere two years earlier.  When her obvious pride in her appearance along with her confidence as a medical practitioner quite fascinated me.

I remain fascinated by this breed of super-achieving women, but she scarcely resembles the woman she was a scant few years earlier.  Though, a change of fortune in her home life could readily enough turn that around to some degree.  This is not the first time she has told me she does not manage to sleep well at night.  Unlike her first child, this second daughter, now almost a year old, wakes up frequently throughout the night, crying.

Although initially - this woman whose raven-black hair looks more dank now than lustrous, and who has gained weight noticeably, though still dressing ultra-stylishly, foregoing the classical white-jacket uniform my previous doctor wore, and appears tired and worn, ankles swollen - she had laughed softly when I admiringly asked her how she manages it all - family and career - she said she had a lot of help, leaving me with the impression that her husband took up a lot of slack, mentioning at the same time that her father often came to visit, from Europe, for prolonged periods, to help.

On the other hand, as she examined me, speaking in her rapid, accented staccato, I strained to listen carefully, not to miss anything as she took my blood pressure, examined my heart and pulse, ears and eyes, palpated my breasts and stomach, and informed me that she had detected a skipped heartbeat that my cardiologist has not noticed.  She took a swab for a lab test for cervical cancer, and set about urging me to take a colonoscopy, then spoke of a new initiative to persuade older people like to accept an inoculation against pneumonia.  And wrote up a series of tests; bone density, mammogram, blood test, and others that she wanted me to look into and have performed.

I groaned both inwardly and conspicuously, and she responded by smiling at me with a wry expression as though to commiserate; it is not all fun and comfort inhabiting a body that is slowly wearing down, even if in my case the body is doing very well for itself, and for me. 

I gave her no advice, such as musing that in my experience a child that is as restless and dissatisfied as hers appears from her description will always be that way, and as she grows into her childhood, her teens, her adulthood, that area of her character will produce a restless, dissatisfied adult.  And as her mother, she will bear the brunt of it. 

The advice she gave to me I followed to a degree.  First off the pneumonia inoculation.  Given intermuscularly by the attending nurse.  And which I just brushed off, commenting later to my husband that I felt nothing amiss.  That is, until later, in the evening, when I began to feel as though I had somehow managed to walk into a speeding Mack truck.