Mr. Robson "Hello there, Mr. Andrew." I greeted him with a smile as one of my favorite patients shuffled into my office. His trusty cane tapped out a rhythmic hello against the tiles. "How are you feeling today?" "Oh, not so good," he replied with his trademark candor, plopping down into the chair like it had insulted him. "This cough won't leave me alone, my throat feels like I swallowed a cactus, and don't get me started on my back-it's protesting louder than my ex-wife at alimony hearings." I chuckled softly as he began his litany of complaints.
He had a way of turning misery into stand-up comedy. Still, I only half-listened. After years of knowing him, I'd learned to separate the dire from the dramatic. Mr. Andrew wasn't just here for a doctor's opinion. No, this was his social hour, his connection to the outside world. And I got it. Many of my older patients treated the waiting room like a community hub. Part of me wanted to establish a café or a club for them, somewhere cozy and harmless where they could chat and debate the daily news-anywhere but my office. "All right," I said with a grin, gesturing toward the examination table. "Let's run a few checks. How about you tell me how that book of yours is coming along while I take your blood pressure?" His face lit up at the mention of his novel. "Oh, Doctor! It's really coming together. Picture this-an intrepid hero, a femme fatale, and a treasure map! It's got action, romance, suspense-everything. Guaranteed bestseller!" As I wrapped the cuff around his arm, he launched into a breathless summary of his plot, complete with dramatic hand gestures and impromptu dialogue. I nodded, inserting an occasional "Hmm" or "Sounds brilliant!" at strategic intervals. Honestly, it sounded more like a spaghetti western than a literary masterpiece, but who was I to crush his dreams? "Of course," he added with a sigh, "if I'd won the lottery last night, I wouldn't need to fuss about this book at all, now would I?" "Ah, the lottery," I said, laughing as I recorded his vitals. "The great equalizer. I suppose we've all got our fingers crossed for that magic ticket." "If I'd won," he continued, his eyes twinkling with mischief, "I'd buy myself a private island. No doctors, no appointments, just me, a hammock, and maybe a few coconuts. What about you? What's your dream?" The question caught me off guard. My dream wasn't extravagant-just the chance to pay off my debts, lift the weight off my shoulders. But there wasn't much magic in that answer, so I improvised. "Well," I said, pretending to ponder, "I'd probably open a place just for patients like you-a cozy café with free tea and biscuits, a trivia corner, and maybe even bingo night. Call it the Hypochondria Hub." He laughed so hard it turned into a coughing fit, which had me momentarily concerned. But as I handed him a glass of water, he winked. "Not a bad idea, Doc. Just make sure the bingo prizes are something good-none of that cheap chocolate!"