Questioning

I can tell when I walk into the room – either by myself or with another doctor.
The patient and whoever else present look me up and down. They see my scuffed shoes, the pens sticking out of my pockets, the outline of my pager protruding from my waist, my nametag (the one that is usually facing the wrong direction) and my gray streaked hair that is pulled into a messy ponytail. They look me in the eye, studying my face as they take in my pale skin, the occasional breakout and blemishes, the dark circles under my eyes, the glasses that are slightly tipped to the left.

There are several common reactions to what they see – some see me looking at them and look away quickly, as though they’ve been caught staring. Others continue to take me in, and it isn’t until I start talking that they refocus and look away.

“How old are you?” they’ll ask  Some will add an “I don’t mean to be rude and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want” and others will simply say aloud, “Are you sure you’re old enough to be a doctor?”

I try to feel them out – are they asking because they think I’m too young to be their doctor? Is there a chance that they have children my age and they can’t imagine their child being the one to take care of them? Was their last doctor much older or male? What were they expecting to see, I wonder, while I think about what I can say.

There are times when I take a moment to ask them how old they think I am, but this question is usually met with silence or a comment about how they’ve never seen a doctor so young.  I once asked someone how old they thought a doctor should be, but they weren’t able to give me an answer and I haven’t repeated the question. Perhaps I should.

Most of the time I simply answer 29, which I realize is only true if I round 28 and 11/12th up. I started saying that I was 29 when I started my second year of residency…maybe because it didn’t feel like it was enough to be a second year resident, and I wanted to feel a whole year older.

The patients who are my age are often taken aback – I can almost see them doing the math and their eyes sometimes squint as they wonder aloud how much schooling it took to get to where I am.
The older patients pause, before they start recounting what they were doing at my age. Some were housewives, and pregnant with the fifth, sixth or seventh child. Some were breaking out on their own, or travelling to other parts of the country. Some were returning from military service, or changing careers, or burying their parents.

Where am I from? Where did I go to school? are questions that are quick to follow, and I have come to understand that this means that my age is no longer an issue – I have “passed,” if you will. I’ll give the name of the high school I graduated from, or tell them I was born at the hospital across the street, rather then simply give the name of the town we’re in. There can be a subtle moment of pride here, especially if they are also from the area. This opens the conversation up for stories about how they played football or softball or how they were a part of the student-run production (that has been going on for 100+ years).  There is usually a visable softening at this point, as being from the same town/county/state must imply that I know how things are “done.” I must know them, and what is important and it makes up for my youthful appearance.

The whole conversation about my age and such may only take a minute or two, but it happens several times a day, generally with patients I’ve never met before. I’ve never had a patient say that they want to see an older doctor, but I won’t be surprised if it happens in the future.