First Things First

The new doctor is young, with masses of dark curly hair that fall well past her slender shoulders and a ready smile. I like and am comfortable with her from the very first moment but still it's a struggle to articulate my feelings of depression and the anxiety that accompanies them. I don't want to sound like I'm whining or looking for a quick fix and I'm reassured when she listens intently, meeting my eyes unwaveringly and nodding with comprehension when I manage a coherence I don't fully feel.

She frowns at my smoking but is gentle about it, writing a prescription for an anti depressant and saying “First things first. We get you to feeling better than maybe we'll talk about your smoking.”

My weight earns another frown, as unexplained weight gain or loss often does. Without changing a thing, mine has been up and down like a roller coaster these past few years, going from 147 to 105 to 125 to 118 to today's 1o3.

“Might be your emotional state,” she says carefully, “But we'll look at everything again just to be sure.” Another smile, this one just a shade more cautious. “Though I would prefer you didn't lose any more.”

She orders blood work and a chest x ray, mentions that I might want to be taking an aspirin every day - I already am, have been for years - praises my blood pressure and recommends leaving the cyst on the back of my neck alone unless it starts to bother me.

We agree, just as my former doctor and I always did, that all things considered, I'm in fine shape for the shape I'm in. I think I've chosen well.