I went to our family doctor for a summer-camp physical. This
was Dr. Wheeler, who delivered me, who was a close friend of my dad’s, and who
took care of all of us for decades. As he checked me over and filled out the
form, he noticed that I was days away from turning 13.
“You’ve got a big birthday coming up,” he said. “Have you
asked your parents for something special?”
I told him what I wanted was to get my ears pierced,
but my mother wouldn’t let me. She was dead-set against ear piercing, yet
another reason for the two of us to lock horns. I explained to Dr. Wheeler that
she thought it was unsafe, unsanitary, and unsuitable for a young lady.
(She changed her tune when she had lost one too many
earrings and my father threatened to never buy her another pair unless she got
her ears pierced, but that is a story for another time.)
“Well, it’s not unsafe or unsanitary if I do it,” he
replied, pulling out a device that looked like a stapler and popping an earring
in each of my lobes before I could say boo. “Happy birthday!”
The expression on my mother’s face when I got home was
priceless. She turned bright red and was clearly winding up a giant scream when
she took a deep breath and composed herself. “Well, I suppose he is the one I
put in charge of your health,” she said.
I had always loved Dr. Wheeler, but this event sealed our friendship
in perpetuity. A fond memory is the time he showed up at my bedside after I had
foot surgery with a pile of Polaroids. Another surgeon had done the deed, but
Dr. Wheeler had gone in and photographed the whole thing. And when he performed
a minor outpatient surgery on the same foot a year later, he hooked up some
mirrors so I could watch the whole thing.
What a guy!
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