NONFICTION      

All Things Medical  -   photo by Weebly.com                                    

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Take Me
by  Cathy Fiorello

​A word of caution to the Grim Reaper: If you come for my husband before you come for me, he will be incensed. “Take her!” he’ll demand. “She forgets to take her medicine, she can’t swallow pills, she uses too much salt, eats too many carbs—and she drinks! Take her!”
 
Unlike my husband, I will go willingly. I will give the Deity of Death no grief on our journey to the Afterworld. My husband has lived his life on medical alert; I have lived mine as a medical scofflaw. I have not earned the right to a longer life than his.
 
My mother played a major role in my cavalier health habits. She did not believe in preventive health care. She fed us lots of greens and dressed us warmly in winter. We didn’t own a thermometer; we didn’t need one. She pressed the palm of her right hand to our forehead to determine if we had a fever and could stay home from school that day. Nor did we have regularly scheduled doctor appointments. “Doctors always find something wrong with you,” she would say. Even today, that thought lingers in the back of my mind. Never underestimate the longevity of a mother’s cautions.
 
The reason my mother didn’t go to the doctor was because the doctor came to her. Dr. Wahlman made weekly stops at our family-filled four-story brownstone, just like George, the Prudential man, who came to collect the 10-cent premium for insurance policies my mother and aunts considered their bulwark against impending financial disaster. Dr Wahlman’s bag was filled with everything he would need to treat whatever ailments he might find as he made his rounds from floor to floor. Sometimes this included delivering a baby. Over the years, cousins were born on every floor. I took my first breath outside the womb on the second floor of 410 Second Street in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn, New York, Dr. Wahlman presiding over the event.
 
My mother always challenged Dr. Wahlman’s medical advice. “I don’t need a prescription,” she would declare. “Just some more of that red nerve medicine we get at the drugstore.” There wasn’t a member of my family who didn’t panic when Mom’s red nerve medicine ran out. An emergency run was made to the drugstore where Bruno, the pharmacist, would shake up something colorful that would make us feel better—red for my mother’s nerves, yellow for my sore throat.
 
My mother and Dr. Wahlman had a tenuous relationship. She gave him hell; he gave her tender care. “Rose, you’re my favorite patient,” this kindly Jewish doctor would say to this indomitable Italian woman to whom family was all.

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The parameters of medical care have changed dramatically since my mother’s day. My husband and I have seven doctors for the two of us, all of whom we have to make appointments with far in advance to see at their offices, being careful not to get sick in August when doctors are on vacation.
 
Given my lack of contact with doctors early in my life, is it any wonder that I don’t understand doctor-speak? That’s why my husband insists on accompanying me on my visits, even to the gynecologist, his least favorite waiting room. He understands medical lingo. He listens. He asks questions. He takes notes. I sit, nodding my head in mock comprehension, then asking as soon as we exit the doctor’s office, “What did he say?”
 
My husband is rightfully indignant at the possibility that he may be asked to leave this life before I do. I am not a good patient. I most likely would not have made it to this venerable age without him. He keeps meticulous files on doctor appointments, his and mine, and prescription refills for both of us. He nags constantly, but he makes sure I take those medications. He was at his best, and most annoying, during the pandemic. He tracked down those vaccines like he was searching for the Holy Grail, and when he found them, he got me there.
 
I admit, I owe him big-time, and I know exactly how I will repay him. When the Grim Reaper darkens our doorway and aims his scythe at my husband, I will shout, “Stop! You came for the wrong person. I’m the one you want. Take me!” I wouldn’t last five minutes without him, anyway. 

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​Find your passion and follow it!   -  Oprah Winfrey 
Cathy Fiorello’s passions are food, Paris, and writing. A morning at a farmers’ market is her idea of excitement and visiting Paris is her idea of heaven. And much of her writing is about food and Paris. She worked in publishing in New York, freelanced for magazines during her child-rearing years, then re-entered the work world as an editor. She moved to San Francisco in 2008 and published a memoir, Al Capone Had a Lovely Mother. In 2018, she published a second memoir, Standing at the Edge of the Pool. Cathy has two children and four grandchildren. Her mission is to make foodies and Francophiles of them all.

Other works in this issue:
Nonfiction:
Knowing When to Quit
​Standing at the Edge of the Pool

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