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GRAYSON
It might not be very doctorly of me to say this, but hypochondria is my favorite. I mean, I’d never wish a debilitating psychosomatic illness on anyone, particularly not one that often comes with a heavy dose of crippling anxiety. But I have to say, the best part of my job as general practice doctor at Chamberlain Academy is Sage Whitney and her imagined sicknesses.
I mean, Ebola virus? In Vermont? Her obsession with Hantavirus was a little more realistic.
Kimberly, my nurse, is a self-proclaimed matchmaker, no matter that I don’t need matching. I’ve told her so, dozens of times, and she pretends not to hear me. She has started putting an orange sticky note on the exam room door when Sage is inside. The note doesn’t say anything. It just sticks there, like an elbow-nudge to my ribs. It’s a symbol, or something. Bright orange, to make me think of Sage’s curls, if they were sticky-note orange instead of perfect red.
Kimberly gives me a series of subtle glances as if she thinks she knows things she couldn’t possibly know about what goes on inside my head. Honestly, she’s reaching. I don’t think of Sage that way, and there are many reasons. The biggest reason is that she’s a patient, and my training taught me to develop a careful boundary with my patients. Give them excellent care, but don’t let yourself care too much.
But I’ve come to appreciate Kimberly’s sticky-note warnings.
Not that opening the door to find Sage Whitney in the exam room is a bad thing. Exactly the opposite, and I’m losing my ability to fake chill when I see her. It’s just so fun to see what she’ll come up with when she makes a monthly appointment.
Not that I don’t believe she’s serious. She is. Sage Whitney definitely believes she’s got the things she comes in to talk about. And she’s nobody’s fool. She does her research. She studies her imagined illnesses.
Right now, in fact, I can feel how big my smile is growing just seeing the neon orange square. I settle into my regular face, the one with a polite welcoming smile instead of the amused grin I get in anticipation of her latest malady, and open the door.
“Hi, Sage,” I say.
“Dr. Mercer,” she says. “Thanks for seeing me.”
It’s what she always says. It’s what she said three years ago when she was a senior here at Chamberlain and I was in my first year running the clinic. At our first appointment (she was sure she had heat exhaustion). And all the ones that followed (including frostbite the following week).
No matter that she’s an adult now, and a full-time employee here at Chamberlain Academy, she still calls me Dr. Mercer. It’s an appealing personality quirk. Much like her long list of reasons to come in here for appointments.
And like I always do, I tell her, “You can call me Grayson. You’re not a student anymore.”
She shakes her head. Not going to happen.
I get it. Some people don’t want to be friends with their physician.
And even thought the faculty and staff at Chamberlain Academy are great people, not everyone wants to be friends with their coworkers. I get that, too.
Boundaries.
I’m all for drawing lines.
There does seem to be a tendency for the young and single teachers at Chamberlain to become couples. It seems hardly a semester goes by without someone getting together, getting engaged, or at least getting relation-shipped. Not everyone around here is on the hunt for a happy ending, however. Some of us are working on establishing our careers, taking deep breaths after intensive university study, and paying down years of student debt. I mean, I’m still relearning how to sleep at night after residency.
I sit on the wheeled stool and click open her chart on my tablet. Even if I ignored Kimberly’s commentary in the notes, I’d see a very long list of ailments in Sage’s medical history: possible grass allergy. Swelling toes. Loose molars. Fingernail sensitivity. Infected splinter. Heart arrhythmia. Diabetes. ADHD. Each thing she’s come in worried about, and my diagnoses. Or, more appropriately, my diagnosis—singular. Same one every time.No need for concern.It’s all in her head. Not that I’d ever say it that way. She gets what every patient gets at the Chamberlain clinic—a careful exam, followed by thoughtful conversation about treatment. And for Sage, a careful, generous explanation of how her worry is unnecessarily inflated.
“What’s going on today?” I ask.
She points to her face. “My skin.”
I’m not a dermatologist, but her skin looks great to me. Like most of the kids who attend Chamberlain, she has a glow of health that often comes with the privileges of being raised with excellent medical care. Her skin is radiant. Creamy. Smooth. Perfect. A smattering of freckles across her nose. That little mole right above her lip.
I wait for her to say more.
“These dark circles under my eyes,” she says, looking up at the ceiling just in case I can’t see beneath her eyes. “This is new. And I hate to bug you or waste your time, so I looked up what’s probably causing this.”
I manage not to smile in response. Of course she looked it up. That’s very kind of her, but I’m pretty sure I know what’s causing this.
She tells me anyway. “Here’s what I found. Most likely cause is a vitamin deficiency, and I’m already taking a daily multivitamin. But I might not be getting enough vitamin E, D, K, A and B12. And iron.”
I nod and keep hiding my smile. A little internet in the hands of someone who worries about getting sick? WebDoc.com should be a controlled substance. Take only as directed, and under the careful attention of a human being who is also a medical professional.
