The Patient Was…

The patient, in his early sixties, was a gentleman in the classic sense of the word. A one-word description of him would most accurately be “’elegant.”

He was always impeccably dressed and carried a highly shined, dark leather, man’s purse, one of the many upscale items he sold in his luxury goods boutique. I never knew his precise country of origin, but his English was tinged by the slightest mid-European accent which only added to his aura of refinement.

His medical issues were minor and easily managed: slightly high blood pressure and slightly elevated cholesterol levels. Since I always set aside lots of time for each patient visit, even for those returning regularly with simple problems, we had ample time to talk; our conversations were largely non-medical and always represented a pleasant diversion for me during a busy office day.

Now, as I was a single medical practitioner, it was very difficult for me to plan extended vacations. In a group medical practice, or even with a single associate, a colleague is always available to cover for you, and your medical records are easily accessed. In a single – doctor practice, an outside physician has to cover for your patients in an emergency; the patient and doctor don’t know one another, and records are often not readily available. The situation is less than ideal, for the patients, the doctor, and for medical colleagues.

As a consequence, my vacations as such were generally just long weekends at a house we owned about two hours drive from New York City. But, once a year, in  mid-summer, we spent a full week at the house which was in a beach and boat community. It was a time to relax, to literally let your hair down, go unshaven and dress in casual (read sloppy) clothes.

We usually ate out during that vacation week, foregoing the chores involved in shopping, cooking, and cleaning up after dinners. We favored beach- or bay-front restaurants, where casual was the order of the day. The parking lots of these places were usually filled with older cars and pick-up trucks, often pulling boat trailers.

Near the end of one such vacation week, when I sported a six-day growth of facial hair and was wearing what my wife described as a disreputable outfit, she and I were eating in a favorite bay-side seafood restaurant which served simply grilled fish that had been caught, cleaned, and prepared within hours of appearing on dinner plates.

My seat in the restaurant overlooked part of the parking lot and part of the bay. My gaze would flick only briefly from the view over the water to the parking area when somebody new arrived, but never really registered who or what vehicles drove in. But when I glimpsed a high-end sedan rolling in I didn’t immediately look back to the bay, because that car seemed so incongruous in the parking area of that waterside eatery.

When the door opened and the driver got out, I didn’t recognize him at first. Unshaven, unkempt, dressed like me; I figured he was someone else “letting it all go,” away for however long from the constraints of his usual life.

And then, he turned full face towards me, and I gasped. My wife said, What’s wrong.”

“It’s my patient,” I said. And I quickly described the man she had heard me speak about on previous occasions when he had come to my office.

“What is he doing here?” she asked.

“I guess the same thing we are,” I said.

“Oh. God, look at us,” she said.

By then he had entered the restaurant, and as he turned he saw me. His look of surprise must have matched my own. As he walked toward us to reach his table, I tried not to look up at him. He slowed for a moment alongside me and spoke softly in that damned elegant manner.

“If you don’t say anything, I won’t either.”

And we never spoke of it again.