My Magnolia diagnostician referred me to a Texarkana ENT. Half-way through the exam, this ENT morphed into a seventeen year old, sitting in a formica and metal desk, comatose as I lectured on Dickenson’s “Because I Could Not Stop for Death.” James Hutchinson, fourth period English, third row, fifth seat. James Hutchinson, MD? ENT?
So why didn’t he recognize me? Was it the tracks of three decades down my face, the blond highlights in the once deep brunette hair, the name change from Carmichael to Newman? I asked. And he confirmed, without missing a step in his professional demeanor; he was my former student.
As he finished the exam, Dr Hutchinson flipped my chart closed and said with ease and confidence, “This looks like a ….” He popped off some Latin sounding phrase.“We’ll just take this off in day surgery. These are quite common.”
Day surgery presented another irony. My anesthesiologist was the son of one of my co-workers from ten years back. As he put the mask on me, I alerted him to my living will and DNR request, and I proceeded to count backwards, believing I was going to be just fine.
And I believed that for almost a week, through holiday dinners with family, a New Year’s toast with my husband, even as I planned the opening presentation for inservice the next week. I would resume life just as I had left it, but with a stronger voice.
