No, I’m Not Too Old To Notice My Doctor Is Good-Looking
I, unexpectedly, have to have orthopaedic surgery. This is not great news. After a slew of X-rays, I had an initial, telemedicine appointment with the highly recommended orthopaedic surgeon.
The surgeon told me that some of my bones looked very thin. Why is it always the wrong part of you that looks thin? I also have thin wrists. I would so much rather have thin hips or thin thighs.
The orthopaedic surgeon was very helpful, very kind and patiently answered all of my questions. I had a lot of questions – I think it could be a Jewish trait to ask a lot of questions, especially about anything medical.
There was, however, a problem. I wasn’t bothered by the fact that the orthopaedic surgeon looked very young. Every doctor, dentist, podiatrist or physical therapist that I see is young. More than half the world is young. The problem was that the orthopaedic surgeon was disconcertingly good-looking. His face filled the screen. I was looking at his very blue eyes, thick, dark hair and perfectly symmetrical facial structure for 30 minutes when I should have been solidly focused on my thin bones.
In an email to the surgeon’s medical assistant about the X-ray I had recently had, I mentioned that not only did the surgeon look young, he was also very good-looking.
She replied, saying that my email had made her laugh. “Everyone says that he looks young,” she said.
I don’t think she was laughing about my reference to the surgeon’s youthful appearance. I think that people assume that if you are female and over 70 you are oblivious to men’s good looks. No-one would blink if a 99-year-old man wearing an oxygen mask mentioned a good-looking woman.
“My surgeon is so good-looking,” I said to my younger daughter. She started laughing even though I had just told her about my thin bones and the fact that I had to have surgery.
My husband overheard me telling a close friend that Dr X was mesmerisingly good-looking. My husband began teasing me, relentlessly, by repeating the phrase “mesmerisingly good-looking”. It made me laugh.
“People assume that if you are female and over 70 you are oblivious to men’s good looks. No-one would blink if a 99-year-old man wearing an oxygen mask mentioned a good-looking woman.”
The hospital sent me 20 pages of information about the surgery, the post-surgery and the possible side effects and consequences. I found the information quite terrifying. Why do they have to give you so many worrying details, including the worst-case scenario? I am already a worst-case scenario expert. I don’t need to increase this expertise.
Six of those disturbing pages were instructions and diagrams for post-surgery. I am not good at interpreting diagrams. I have, more often than I like to acknowledge, been unable to work out how to open a box of cereal or the spout that comes with a container of salt without destroying whatever packaging I am trying to open. I am also not good at following certain instructions, like how to dance, or cross-country ski, or swim anything other than breaststroke.
The first of the post-surgery instructions was how to get into a car after your discharge from hospital. Those instructions were incomprehensible, to me. I didn’t even bother trying to understand how to get out of the car, or how to get in and out of bed. I gave those pages to my husband.
I am hoping that the surgeon’s mesmerisingly good looks will distract me from the pain and my anxiety, I wrote in an email to a friend.
I realise that I have now mentioned the words “looks” and “good-looking” six or seven times. I decide that some things are worth repeating. I am, after all, talking about medical issues.
A friend sends me a link to a series of fascinating documentaries to watch while I am recuperating. The prospect of watching them eases my anxiety. I hope I won’t still be trying to get into the car.
This is an edited extract from Old Seems to be Other People by Lily Brett, published by Penguin, $24.99.
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