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Atlanta, Georgia He would never knock. His entrance was always extravagant, with ruffles and flourishes and an armful of files. "How's it hangin' my old friend?" was his opening prompt, and it would be a good half hour before my doctor ever got around to the first hint of doctoring. We talked of new restaurants and air shows and a certain baseball team that was the love of his life, everything except that little pain in my elbow or the hesitation in my get-along. "Well, then," he would finally manage, "what are we dying of today?" He was my doctor for the better part of a quarter century, and that file under his right arm had grown from a few sheets of paper to a couple inches thick, held together with heavy rubber bands. How long had that file been building? There were ashtrays in his waiting room when I first began going to him. I know because I used them. It was another thing he got out of my system. The bundle contained the history of my health. Other doctors had forwarded my test results and semi-annual checkup scores and there, in his hands, was my life. "Hmmm," he would hum, scratching the rapidly whitening beard and delving into the file with all the care of an archeologist, "let's see what your numbers were last year." There was never much of concern. The cholesterol rose with the years, as did the blood pressure, and the proper medications were dosed. Bits and pieces, an occasional furrowed brow and more scratching of the beard, but fortunately never anything that couldn't be easily fixed or dismissed. He had seen me from every angle and, for that, I rarely envied his position. But he never complained, was always there, ready to renew a friendship as he gleefully pulled on the rubber gloves. Until he disappeared. With my file. With my life. Because I rarely saw him more often than once a year, I never thought to check on him. I simply found it time for my annual physical and made the call. "We're sorry, that number has been disconnected. Please check the number and try again." I called information. "We're sorry, there is nobody by that name listed." I drove to the towering building where his office had been for years. The sign was off his door, and it was locked. I checked a medical web site, called people who might have known him, desperately continued my search, all to no avail.
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