2025

A certain patient and I had always enjoyed an easy rapport at his annual exams and occasional acute care appointments.

Then one morning he presented with an itchy skin rash. The skin findings were minimal; he had tried over-the-counter creams to no avail. I prescribed a more potent topical medication, and he left satisfied. Two weeks later he called again, this time asking for an urgent visit. The rash had spread and the itch was keeping him up at night. He sent photos via the portal, but their blurriness made them difficult to decipher.

I have chest pain again. Chest pain and dizziness and shortness of breath. So I am in the ER for the dozenth time over the past few years.

And because no one ever knows what’s going on (because I’m a woman of a certain age and all the tests are negative), we all assume it’s just one of those things. It will go away. Or it won’t.

“But don’t hesitate to come in when you have the symptoms again.”

He answers the door wearing only a button-down shirt and incontinence briefs, no pants, paper towels in one hand, his walker out of reach on the other side of his assisted-living apartment.

“Who are you?” His brow crinkles as his dark eyes bore into me, vacant yet suspicious.

“We met here last month,” I say. I reintroduce myself as his new primary care provider and remind him that he was referred to me by his longtime, beloved clinic-based doctor for home-based primary care.

My stepfather, Roddy, was known for being a hypochondriac.  My mother used to say, “If he sneezes, it’s a medical emergency. But he’ll outlive us all.”

This time was different, however. He’d stopped eating, was silent, had no complaints. His oldest daughter convinced him to go to the emergency room. At first, he seemed relieved he’d see his doctor, who, he was sure, would tell him nothing was wrong. Roddy laughed, discussed politics, and reminisced.

Due to some “worrisome but inconclusive” lab results, he was admitted. In the hospital, a wild goose chase began, sidetracked by red herrings. While we studied the trail, disease ravaged his body.

All my childhood summer memories revolve around the pool in our backyard. Shamu floats. Diving for coins. Endless laps to create a whirlpool. Reenacting iconic scenes from Titanic on days when the water was cold.

All those days at the pool also meant a childhood full of sunburns. Though my parents slathered me in sunscreen, I burned easily. I have fair skin—fair enough that I always select the lightest tone when choosing a foundation. I also have too many moles to count. My sole saving grace is that, as a 20-something in the early 2000s, I never got in a tanning bed.

Feel free to call me Dorothy—you know, the girl in the Wizard of Oz who was consumed by a tornado and deposited in an alien land with no anchor but her dog Toto.

Chaos consumes me. As I sit typing this, my desk is littered with a full water bottle, a pill box, bills, scissors, a calendar, a mouse, some essential oils, pens, a Kleenex box, an empty water bottle, a stack of who-knows-what-they-are papers (actually, three stacks), some stuffed animals, an eyeglasses holder, a keyboard duster, some jewelry—I can’t even continue to list all the items.