Now, I suppose, the pain will just go away. My back that has been actively aching for two weeks will quiet down. Now that I have humbled myself, or even humiliated myself, to go to the doctor, pay the copay, explain my little discomfiture, have him ask his questions, poke his pokes, squeeze here and squeeze there, and listen to my insides, all to tell me nothing seemed to be amiss. I know what’s going through his mind: why are you again bothering me with your imaginary complaints? He must think I’m just a whiner. It’s just one of those pains, after all.
I knew that. My diagnosis coincided exactly with the doctor’s. My aches were not threatening my life. My joints aren’t crumbling, my vital organs are not rotting with disease, and whatever needs to function, seems to be functioning. It’s not cancer, it’s not kidney stones, it’s not cirrhosis of the liver. I am not going to die—not soon and not from anything I presently know, anyway. But I had to hear it from the doctor because he’s the one, not me, who spent thousands of dollars and many years to get the MD. I guess it’s a matter of point of view. His point of view is what counted, not my aching back or side or whatever.
Most times that’s why I’ve gone to the doctor—to be told I am OK, never mind how shitty I’m feeling. Like I once told a friend who was under some kind of weather: you’re really doing better than you feel. It’s all a matter of point of view. I walked out of the office feeling much better than I did walking in. Maybe it’s the benefit of humility. It was worth the copay.
And, by the way, the mysterious, persistent ache seemed to later be cured by a prolonged soak in a hot pool at the Lake Steam Baths where the swirling jets of hot water gently pummeled my stiff muscles and ligaments or whatever into quietude. Next time I’ll just go there.
Point of View: Denver, 2013
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