Deep chats can hatch in unlikely settings

Some months-long hip pain spurred me to finally see an orthopedist. It would be a routine assessment, and I looked forward to some relief. 

Upon arrival in the modern exam room, they handed me a pair of paper shorts — I was certain they were at least two sizes too big — to wear for the X-ray. How could they think I needed that size? Until I tried to get them on. As the right side began separating, I started sweating. After some judicious shimmying, like slithering into a pair of overly controlling stockings, I wrestled them on. Now they rolled up way too short! Hyperventilating in horror, I was jolted by the 30-something male nurse who popped in to tell me to trot down the hall to the X-ray room. 

“What? Like this? The hallway is in direct view of the gentlemen in the waiting area!” I said. Zero reaction. Had I known this, I would have embraced the hip pain till death. It was like being tagged as medieval town adulteress for public stoning. 

Next delicate task: edging onto the X-ray table without splitting the little drawers further. This is unbelievable. What am I doing here? Once I writhed into place, the technician took the pictures quickly, then told me to reverse-course back down the hall(!). 

A lifetime of delectable Italian meals couldn’t compensate for the shock. Back in the exam room, I was about to quickly change out of the shaming shorts when the handsome doctor rolled in — tanned, obviously just back from his winter stint in the islands. I felt like his albino grandmother.

“Okay, let’s see,” he said, perusing my chart, pretending to miss the 
shorts spectacle. “We’ll need to deal with the arthritis. And maybe a little diet.” Uh, no kidding. “Of course,” I managed to say. His chitchat about the X-ray, how many children I had, my hobbies — didn’t even register. I wanted out of those shorts, and out of that office.

Seeing Legatus’ name on my chart, he hesitated. “What’s Legatus?” 

I began explaining like I was in a suit, trying to ignore the fact I was in the worst getup of my life — mid-life legs in shorter-than-short shorts, rippling over the ice-cold exam table. “Hmm, interesting,” he said. You can say that again. “I haven’t heard of them before,” he said. “Sounds like a fascinating organization.” Gracelessly distracted, I force-focused on answering his continued questions.

I have several doctors where polite conversation somehow lands upon Legatus and sticks. They begin with small talk about work, then are amazed to hear of this peer group for Catholic executives. One doctor, the top internist in our region and a Ukrainian Catholic, keeps me at late-day appointments for hours, talking about his parish, commenting on the Ukraine war, and posing many faith questions. The guy, in the three decades I’ve been his patient, never used to say much at all. He now buzzes right through all the medical stuff, tells me I’m doing great, and clears a time swath to chat about what he’s really curious about. He asks where the Church stands on things. He relates it to what he’s contending with — patients, hospitals, relatives, pharmaceutical companies. Suddenly, I’m the doctor.

At my most recent visit, I described my consultation with the orthopedist. He dropped into his chair in hysterics, yanking tissues out of his lab coat, catching his glasses, and swabbing his face. Muffled chortles were coming from the front desk. 

God works in strange ways, all right, and with signature humor. His ways certainly aren’t ours. We just have to bear up as trusted ambassadors, even in the most unexpected moments.