My first intimate encounter with an Eastern medical doctor occurred not two weeks after 9/11, when recurrent images of crumbling towers on the nightly news all too accurately reflected my disheveled marriage to my first husband and correspondingly—my inner world.
There I stood at the outset of this fateful journey, my bare calves streaked with filthy water, my ankles rubbed raw and bleeding, again. Arrayed in my DKNY raincoat and spike-heel uniform, I’d just dashed five blocks from my midtown Manhattan office and down a street decorated with Brazilian flags to make it to my doctor’s appointment on time.
It was already 11:03 by the time I found her location on the second floor of a … well, I’m still not sure, but I believe it was a residential apartment building. A massage sign on the downstairs door had almost thrown me off the scent, because being fresh out of the University of Florida, I was looking for a lone medical office, perhaps two or three stories and an elevator; and in light of a Catholic upbringing, I shuddered and almost didn’t pass go once I saw that sign. Yet, I felt vaguely aware of some benevolent force drawing me in, despite visions of oily naked bodies sprawled upon tables on the other side. So I went for it, never mind what that implies about me.
The door clanked shut behind me, and whew! No one else was there, yet my heart pounded audibly as I hobbled up the creaky winding staircase in gloomy dimness, only to find myself nauseous and trembling before a locked door. My ear pressed against the door, yet I heard nothing. Still, the suite number matched the insurance listing, so I knocked three times. At least one whole minute passed before a dim light flickered beneath the door frame, the door squeaked open, and there stood a little old Asian woman peeking at me from beneath the chain. I must have choked out the correct code word, because she invited me in and gestured that I should have a seat on her red antique couch.
