Mom likes to tell a story about a bus trip she made with my two brothers, traveling from Colorado to Arkansas in the early forties. As the bus crossed the state-line into Arkansas, she was asked to move to the front of the bus to make room for others to move to the back. She refused to move, and let the bus driver know that everyone should be able to sit anywhere on the bus that they chose. She recalls sharing the back seat with "a nice black lady" who helped her take care of my brothers as they traveled further South.

In February, 2008, in that same state, she cast her vote for Barack Obama.

Another Mama for Obama--February Primaries in Arkansas

A Good Doc is Hard to Find (Sometimes)

When Mom moved in with me, I started looking for a doctor to care for her. After some consideration, I made an appointment with a geriatric specialist who, I eventually realized, makes his living by referring patients to other doctors.

On the two occasions that we consulted with him, we followed a familiar routine. His very friendly, slightly condescending nurse weighed Mom on a fancy-looking scale that appeared to be designed specifically for elderly patients with walkers (a good sign, I thought) then had us wait in the “examining room” which was really just a small office with three chairs and a desk.

I could hear the doctor visiting with a patient in an adjoining room. He made some jokes, offered some recommendations, then moved on to us. He grasped Mom's hand, murmured a few well-rehearsed pleasantries, telling us how happy he was to meet us and how much he enjoyed working with old people, then launched into what was essentially the same conversation I’d just overheard.

I tried to steer the conversation in the direction of Mom’s need for a check-up and in particular my concern about her feet, her circulation, and some suspicious-looking moles (can't you just picture the tiny dark glasses, trenchcoat and pencil-thin mustache?). He glanced at Mom's feet from the safety of his chair (it was a small room, but I got the distinct impression that he wanted to stay as far away from her feet as possible) then gave us the name of a podiatrist who, he assured us, could “fix us right up.” I put her socks and shoes back on, which he had asked me to remove for the “examination”, then pointed out the small growths on her face, arms and back. Again, he kept his distance and recommended a nice dermatologist who could “take care of that.”

Since he’d run out of comments about elderly women being his “favorite people in the world,” I sensed that the visit had come to an end. As we left, the nurse asked when we’d like another appointment for follow-up. Believe it or not, we went back for one more visit, going through basically the same routine, but this time I peeked into several rooms as we walked down the hall to his office and saw several patients waiting their turns, but I didn’t see anything resembling an actual examination room. I felt as if we were participating in some sort of illegal scam. Medicare paid the bill—over $200 for the first visit, I can’t remember how much for the second—and we never went back.

Happily, after consulting with a couple of other general practitioners, we found the perfect doctor for Mom—the same woman I’ve been going to for several years. I don’t know why I didn’t start with her instead of taking such a convoluted trip looking for a geriatric specialist. She treats Mom with the gentle respect that she (and everyone) deserves. She’s told us that Mom is in pretty good shape, all things considered, and has essentially “outlived her heart,” which I attribute to Mom’s tenacious spirit, her low-key lifestyle, and the power of a daily dose (or two) of dark chocolate.