Dear Dr. G,
When Mom saw your ad in the newspaper back in October, she thought it was a good idea to go check out and I agreed because maybe we’d learn about organs or something which could be pretty cool. So we went to your workshop and I remember I was looking like a hobo because those were my hobo days, where I wore sweats and baggie shirts and crocs. You know I’m feeling bad when I’m wearing crocs. Because those are just awful. Probably even with bright purple fluffy socks. Occasionally with cheetah print. Well we were sitting in the lobby filling out the sheet that got passed around and I accidentally swallowed my gum and I was afraid I was going to die because I’d been on a strict H. Pylori diet that didn’t involve swallowing gum, then Mom laughed at me and probably told me to stop crying and you came out and talked about the gut and we made an appointment and I’m so glad we did, because at the time I was on the mend; I had gotten over H. Pylori, I just had a few lingering symptoms that I knew would go away eventually, but if we hadn’t gone in to see you I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be here today. Now, I know what you’d say right about now, “Amelia, nobody dies from thyroid cancer, there are old people in the hospital who still won’t die, also maybe do some jumping jacks, yada yada yada,” but I’m serious, Dr. G, I can’t emphasize enough how much you helped me. That time I had a swollen thyroid and what felt like a huge pool ball nodule strapped to my windpipe and my primary physician said there was nothing wrong with me . . . that was a scary time. Me and Mom were sitting there in the office crying to him (I know it doesn’t surprise you that I cried, I mean I cry at commercials, but Mom never cries. She’s like . . . Charles Xavier. In the earlier days. With hair. Charles Xavier doesn’t cry, and neither does Mom) and I went to you and you gave me some supplements and it solved all my problems and I saw rainbows and stopped growling at people and oh yeah I could breathe again. And then there was Hashimoto’s and the diagnosis and while you made the steady decline into death more comfortable, you were also way more than my doctor who made fun of me sometimes: You were my best friend. You always listened to me, always helped me, always made me laugh, you were the only one who believed me when I said how strong my guns were, that I would be a natural assassin, and you always reminded me I wasn’t dying. Even when I wasn’t feeling good I always needed to go in to see you because I always left feeling 100% better. Anyway, I just wanted to say that you’re my hero and I’ll always remember you because you saved my life numerous times. And even though I’m pretty much Mary Poppins now (only better, since she’s practically perfect in every way) I’ll see you the next time something tries to kill me. Which will probably be next month. Also, you’re invited to my wedding, whenever that is.
Love, that one lazy girl who hates exercise,
PS I was right about Matt Damon. He’s 45.