Dr. Kevin Miller’s office isn’t on Park Avenue. It’s in a white brick medical building at New York University Medical Center, close to Bellevue Hospital where the trauma center is known for treating gunshot wounds.
I don’t see runway model receptionists, a back entrance for celebrities, or rare orchids. The only thing green and growing here is a snake plant that my mom says is also known as mother-in-law’s tongue. The pink ribbon around this one’s pot makes it look like it was left behind by a patient who didn’t want to bring something like that home.
We wait until my name is called. Forbes, Newsweek, Smithsonian, and Golf Digest are on the coffee table. I play a game on my cell and then text Mel.
Waiting to see Dr. Miller. Minutes go by. She doesn’t answer. Did she get it? Does she even care anymore? Something about her not answering depresses me. Now that her surgery is over, has she abandoned me?
The nurse eventually calls us. She wouldn’t win any beauty contests. She doesn’t look like she’s had plastic surgery or that it would make much difference if she did. Strangely enough, that puts me at ease. This isn’t Dr. Jordan’s perfect bubble of beautiful blonds and white silk curtains. This office shouts “real world.”
Dr. Miller comes in almost immediately. He’s tall with broad shoulders and a mixture of blond and gray hair. He looks like he was on the basketball team or played football when he was in college. He must have been hot then because he’s cute now in an old-guy way. He gives me a warm smile and glances down at the forms I filled out.
The consultation isn’t very different from the one with Mel’s doctor. After the “tell me why you’re here,” I go on about the bump and my profile. Dr. Miller narrows his eyes. He listens hard as though he wants to hear not only my words, but also the thoughts behind them. By now I know that where you are mentally is a big chunk of how a surgeon sees you. You’re not just a nose on two legs. If you’re immature or loony tunes, they don’t want you.
The exam doesn’t take much longer than Dr. Jordan’s. Dr. Miller touches, looks, and asks about breathing, allergies, or other medical issues. If I go with him, the surgery will be in the hospital, not his private office, but I’ll go home the same day.
When it’s time for questions, I ask him if he has a book of before-and-after pictures. He shakes his head.
“Every patient is different,” he says. “You shouldn’t base your decision on how someone looked before and after because that won’t have any bearing on how you’ll look.” He also doesn’t like computers that show you before and after.
“It’s a marketing technique,” he says. “What you can do on a computer isn’t always what you can do in real life.” It’s like offering a patient “an implied warranty,” he says. “And I can’t give you that.”
He tells me to think about it and talk to my mom. He glances at her briefly. “If you have more questions, pick up the phone.”
We walk out and I turn to my mom.
“When you have two doctors who are both supposed to be equally good, how do you decide which one to choose?”
“You pick the one you’re more comfortable with. They’re both respected and experienced, so you go with your gut.”
Going with your gut, my family’s mantra. Beyond all their research, my dad trusts his gut. My mom does too. I know there’s some scientific basis to that. I’ve read about how you should trust your instincts, especially when it comes to danger and you get bad vibes about a person or a situation, and your gut tells you to get away.
By the time we get out of the cab at our apartment, I decide that Dr. Miller is more down to earth and someone I can relate to better. The day after I see him, I call his secretary and set up an appointment for the day after school ends in June. I make a chart and start counting the days. About an hour later, I finally get a text from Mel.
Cool!
Okaaay.