Of all Benjamin's medical entourage, his endocrinologist is my favorite. We have been going to him for eighteen years, and although he did not literally save Ben's life, like the endocrinologist in 1998 who was president of the Diabetes Association at the time, she did recommend him. Almost demand that we join his practice when we left California. So we did. 

 

He likes Benjamin, and always has math problems ready to spice up the conversation. He makes notes about our family, remembering who got married and who still lives at home. He chats about the Cathedral because he passes it often enough and is curious. I spare him the details about Benjamin's emotional terrain, since we are there to talk about his thyroid. Who knew you could carry on a multi decade conversation about a gland the size and shape of a monarch. Butterfly, that is, not king. 

 

I do know that the thyroid monitors growth. Which is why there is particular attention given to Ben's statistics. 

 

"My blood pressure was two prime numbers!" Ben told him. "61 and 101."

 

The doctor smiled. He has a great smile.

 

I marveled that this man and others like him including the medical student who was shadowing him that day could both care about and understand the intimate details of the thyroid. I am not sure I could even spell it before that fateful day long ago. How many other components of my well being am I woefully uninformed about? Probably any list would be lacking. My bones. My optic nerve. The capillaries that reach each pulsing cell every minute of every day without my assistance.

 

The areas that I jolly myself into believing are part of my responsibility are broad enough to keep me busy. Being mindful about food groups as I feed my family. Having money in the bank before bills are due. Remembering birthdays. But it seems that the real business of keeping me alive goes on behind a screen. 

 

It is almost as if I am the intern and not the real Expert. Who has a magnificent smile, by the way.