Читать книгу Francesca's Kitchen - Peter Pezzelli - Страница 14

“Blood pressure is fine,” said the doctor. He removed the cuff from Francesca’s arm and scribbled the numbers down on her chart. Then he took the stethoscope and listened to her heart for a few moments, before placing the cold metal disk on her back. “Big breath, please,” he asked.

Francesca took a deep breath.

“Now out,” said the doctor. He moved the stethoscope to another part of her back. “Again.”

Francesca had come in for her yearly checkup. She didn’t care much for going to the doctor, but it kept her son and daughters from nagging her about taking care of her health. But wasn’t it her job to nag them, she wondered as the doctor continued his examination. Francesca had been in such gloomy spirits earlier that morning that she had almost cancelled the appointment. The thought of having to listen to the children carry on to her about it was the only thing that had motivated her to get in the car. She looked back at the doctor, who was now leaning back against the examination table. He was a young man, late thirties at the oldest, she guessed, though a few flecks of gray on his temples suggested he might be slightly older. If she had to go to the doctor, Francesca ordinarily would have preferred to be examined by someone closer to her own age. Doctor Johnson, however, to whom Francesca had gone for years, had retired the previous spring, leaving this new doctor, Doctor Olsen, to take over the practice. Though she did not yet trust him, trust being something that did not come easily to her, she could not help but like his pleasant manner and the way he took his time with her. He seemed competent enough. Francesca decided that he would do for the time being.

“Let’s see,” the young doctor continued as he scanned his notes, “your heart sounds good, weight’s just where it should be—though it wouldn’t hurt to be a little heavier, believe it or not—and all your blood work looks fine.”

“So I guess that means I’m going to live, Doctor Olsen?” she asked, not particularly cheered by his findings.

“If I had to put it into medical terms, I’d say that you’re healthy as a horse.”

“Then how come I feel so rotten all over?”

“Well, I’d say it’s because of that fall you told me about,” he explained. “You’d be surprised by how long it takes to fully recover from a jolt like that. It might not have seemed so bad to you at the time, but you probably gave yourself a good wrench. Just that little bit of constant achiness you’ve been experiencing catches up with you. Add in a few nights of poor sleep on top of that, and you’re not going to be in the mood for turning cartwheels.”

“I guess,” said a glum Francesca. In her heart, she knew the doctor was right. She also knew that there was more than just the fall that was making her feel so down. She had already confessed all that, however, so she saw no point in bringing it up again here.

The doctor tapped his pen against his clipboard and eyed her thoughtfully for a few moments. “You know, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you other than what I’ve told you, but this time of year can get you down as well. We call it seasonal affective disorder. SAD.”

“Sad. That sounds about right for what I have,” said Francesca, chuckling for the first time since she came to the office. “What causes it?”

“Lack of sunlight this time of year,” he explained. “It’s more and more unheard of the closer you get to the equator, where the daylight remains fairly constant. Up north where we live, though, as the days get shorter, so do our tempers, if you know what I mean.”

“What do you do for it?”

“Try to get out in the sun for a few minutes each day,” he recommended. “Or even just sit in front of a sunny window whenever you can. Getting more sleep will help as well. Perhaps even taking an afternoon nap every day if you don’t already take one. You’re a very healthy person, so you should try to find something to keep your mind active to pass the time. That’s always important.”

“I’m tired of just passing the time,” Francesca told him with a sigh. “I want to fill it and live it.” She sat there sulking for a time. “Maybe I should get myself a job,” she suggested.

“There’s no reason why you can’t still work if you want to,” said the doctor.

“Really?” said Francesca. She had made the suggestion as a joke and was much surprised by his response.

“I mean, just part-time,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to see you working more than a few hours here and there every week. Not that you couldn’t, but unless you need the money, why would you?”

Francesca turned the idea over in her mind. By a strange coincidence, while she had been straightening up the kitchen after supper a few days earlier, she had happened to notice an article on the front page of the career section of the Sunday newspaper. The article was titled “Getting Back into the Job Market: A Guide for Older Workers.” At the time, she hadn’t given it much thought. She hadn’t bothered to read the article, but instead used that section of the newspaper to wrap up the food scraps from dinner. Looking back now, though, she wished she had saved the article. For a moment, it seemed like an intriguing possibility. But then another thought brought her down.

“It’s been years since I worked outside the house,” she told him. “Last time was before I had my children. Who would hire me now, and to do what?”

“I don’t know,” admitted the doctor. “But it’s never too late to learn something new, something that you might enjoy, and at the same time be of use to an employer. I guess you’ll just have to keep your eyes open and wait to see what comes up.”

“Wait,” Francesca muttered. “You sound an awful lot like someone else I know. Seems like all I do these days is wait.”

The doctor gave her a kind smile. He helped her put on her coat and then held open the door. “See you next year, Mrs. Campanile,” he said pleasantly.

“If God wants,” Francesca replied, giving him a nod. Then she picked up her pocketbook and headed out to the front desk to schedule next year’s appointment.