To Dr. Gold

Dear Dr. Gold,

I have a confession to make. Even as I write this, I want to “make this perfect” for you, whatever that means. You're probably laughing at my nerves, because you understood how exceptional I already was. You probably wouldn't be surprised to know that my poetry book is in the Library of Congress. When we knew each other, I was already a storyteller. The one story you never told me is where you got the chair shaped like a baseball mitt, and whether  you were a Yankees or Mets fan.

The appointments  to you seemed more like a visit, than going to a doctor. As my parents and I waited, you put us all at ease, trading jokes before “the examination” took place.

I didn’t know that I learned through the arts, you certainly did. I always did better with the “storytelling” cards, than I did when you asked me how much five plus two was. Even today, I think my answer would still be eight. Just kidding. We both know it’s ten.

You had the unique talent of making me feel important, heard. Medicine is an art. Since we were both artists, you drew me a picture I understood. We had a code  that not even my parents could break, even when you called them in for the yearly conference. Whatever you said to them worked, they were less tense(at least for a day).

Even after our visits,  I  “made it” just in time for my afternoon classes and homework. Lucky me! I still got Math homework. Couldn’t you have written me a note saying: “Erika’s exempt from Math, since she’ll never use Algebra in her novels?”  On second thought, maybe it’s better you didn’t, since only another doctor could have read your handwriting.

It’s hard for me to remember some stuff, since we first met in 1972. I was nineteen months old, had my first seizure. I'm still not sure whether you were the doctor on call at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital. What we do know, is that you were stuck with me, until I moved to California. When you got the news about the move, I remember you saying to me: “Erika, I have to divorce you”, since you’re moving. You couldn’t get rid of me that easily! For years,

I would call you to ask about a particular drug that my neurologist wanted to try, and you would say: “Call your neurologist.” My response? “I am.”

You spoiled me. Since you communicated with me in a way I understood

I expect that from every doctor. I remember writing letters to you over the years and you’d always send me a quick note.

I never knew that you were Dyslexic. When I found out, my first thought was: “Wow! How did Dr. Gold get through medical school?” Then, I remembered your persistence.

Dr. Gold, you  were a pioneer in so many ways: You wore so many hats—Physician, friend,  mentor, advocate. Thank you, Dr. Gold, for teaching me how to advocate for myself.

I love you always.

Erika