Aging, Part 1

My doctor--a phrase I never thought I'd use--calls me "young lady" as he enters the exam room, hand extended toward me. I shake his hand and ponder his words. It's not the first time he has addressed me thus, and, by the way, he repeats the label as he exits the room. I don't like it, of course, and so, since I now know him better than I ever wanted to, I ask him, "Why do you call me young lady when it's obvious I am not young?" Unflapped, he says, "Because you are young."

Hmph. I must admit I like his answer. At least it sends my thoughts in a better direction.

And at least he doesn't call me "Sweetie," as my dermatologist does. Yes, I don't like saying "my dermatologist" either, but I see him, Dr Burr, annually so he can freeze away my pre-cancer spots. This because I grew up on the beach, so to speak, and still haven't accustomed myself to the feel and smell of sun block on my face.

I once asked him not to call me Sweetie. He was visibly shaken, having mistakenly thought that I, and every woman in her 60s, would love to be called Sweetie and that he was doing me a favor. Or something like that.

I don't remember his reply. He did his best to recover, but it was clear he did not know how to address me for the remainder of that appointment. "Mrs Schiess" or even Carol would have been fine, but apparently that would have required too much thought. Of course, he had my chart in his hands . . . with my name on it. In his defense I will say that he did not then treat me rudely, even though I had made him feel uncomfortable. But, hey, as soon him as me. The feeling uncomfortable part, I mean.

The next year it was like this: His nurse led me to an exam room and asked, "How's your day going, Hon?" I may have muttered something about the "Hon." And when Dr Burr came into the room, hand extended, he was back to calling me Sweetie. Oh well.