First, Do No Harm

I’m at home and, surprise, my arm is in a sling.
I’m due for my next doctor’s appointment pretty soon, and I’ve started to make phone calls to find out who knows the name of a good doctor.
As usual, the western North Carolina phone tree has come through for me. I first called A*, because A* knows everyone and everything. I got her on her cell on a garage somewhere in Asheville – she was having a hydraulic hose replaced on her van.
"It’ll take another hour or so," she reported. "I thought I’d sit here and go through my mail and pay a few bills. Make some phone calls. I’ve got a copy of Harper’s and a box of crackers. I just hope they finish before I’ve got to pick up the kids at school."
"Nevermind that," I said. "I’m calling about my collar bone. I need the name of an orthopedic surgeon."
"Funny you should asked," she replied. "I know two people who’ve had shoulder injuries recently."
This is why I call A*.
"My step-father had surgery on his shoulder last month, and my friend B* hurt his shoulder, too. With you, Frank, that makes three people I know who are in slings right now. Funny, huh?"
"Nevermind that," I said. "Do these people have doctors who also function as acceptable human beings?"
"That I don’t know, but I’ll call them and get back to you. If they have decent doctors I’ll let you know. But, you know who else you should call is C* and L*. They’re both doctors and they can recommend an orthopedic."
Of course! C* and L*! From market! Not only are they doctors, but they eat organic food! They’ll know someone, and, the sooner they find out about my injury, the better: they’ll be coming by market every week, and I’ll be able to ask for more advice!
A* seemed preoccupied for a moment – I pictured her digging through her purse – and then recited a phone number.
I called C* and L* that night and left a message. L* called me back about half an hour later, speaking in her best bedside manner. "The hot dog got you, huh?"
Is there no where this tale has not reached?!
"Gotta watch those landings, kiddo."
All dripping sweet saccharine bullshit lay down for a nap its okay mommy’s here doctor’s voice oh, shut the fuck up.
Then she asked me a bunch of questions that included words that I did’t understand so I just said yes. And then got down to the real business: finding a doctor.
"There are plenty of orthopedics in Asheville," she said, "but what you have to understand is that they’re all like the mafia."
If you’re looking for good news, you should go to a different blog. But, you already know that.
"They all work at one place, and none of them are known for good manners," she said. "I know of a few in Hendersonville who aren’t like the mafia, and have good manners, but I don’t like any of them, anyway. I’d stick with the Asheville mafia."
"That’s the best news you can give me?"
"Well, that’s who I send all my patients to, and they all got better."
Finally, good news.
"I can recommend one to you. One of my patients is a crotchety, ninety year old lady in a wheelchair, and she likes him. And she doesn’t like anyone. So if she likes him, he must be alright."
"With that kind of a recommendation, how can I go wrong. What’s his name?"
So she gives me the guy’s name, which I won’t mention here but is a sissy, froo-frooey, back east, Ivy League kind of a name. And get this: The Third. Not only was his grandfather dipshit enough to pass the name along, but his father was, too.
I concocted this vast dream in my mind about how this guy is spending his life making people better to compensate for this silly name he’s been straddled with.
Mafia or no mafia. He’s my man.
I called his office this morning, gave his receptionist all of my information, and then some more information, and have an appointment for next week. We’ll see how it goes.
Meanwhile, A*’s car is back on the road, with a new power steering hose.