The Cure

He strode into the room looking his part: the white lab coat, reaching just above the knee announcing that the doctor had arrived.

It was my annual physical. As I had no bells and whistles going off, I was relaxed and ready to engage in discussion in a language conveying my ease, namely bad jokes. So, when the doctor inquired as to whether I had any complaints, I responded that I was hitting too many slices on the course.

With that, this person who was in charge of keeping me whole for as long as possible promptly rose from his chair and removed his signature white coat. He strode towards me and began to speak on a topic far more serious than the state of my health: how to cure what ailed my golf game.

He swung his arms back and forth, mimicking the action of one hitting a shot (when performed by me while I walk through the house or occurring anywhere in public, it is referred to in our family as "golfsterbation") advising me that it was critical that my right elbow remained close to my side as I began the club's descent from the apex of my swing.

And for at least five minutes we were in an extended back and forth on a topic having absolutely no connection to the reason I was there. But one that was clearly of absolute import to this patient’s mental, if not physical, well being.

As he finished up his task, I thanked my physician for his efforts. He had discovered no problems of note with my health, for which I was most grateful. But even more than that he had tried to find the answer for what was truly ailing me. 

I exited his office and headed home. Walking down the street, my arms moving to and fro, giving due respect to the advise of this man who had, for me, just taken on a new and vital role: that of my swing doctor.