Free How I Got to Be Whoever It Is I Am by Charles Grodin

“Mouth.” Julie would say to her, “You’re just like your father.”
    People who prefer silence really shouldn’t marry talkative types, and vice versa. Everyone can be a great person, but no relationship
     is reasonably happy with one person talking most of the time. In defense of us talkers, at least Marion and me, if you want
     to talk, you’ll never get better listeners. If we’re with someone in a room, we’re comfortable as long as someone is talking,
     and it doesn’t have to be us.
    Just before our divorce became final, Julie told Marion, “I think I made a mistake,” but by that point we had both moved on.
     I think she meant yes, I was a talker, but time had taught her she could always count on me. On one hand it was heartbreaking
     to hear, because my daughter was raised without a dad at home. On the other hand, I wouldn’t be married to Elissa for twenty-five
     years and have my son, Nick, if Julie hadn’t left, because I never would have.

Doctors
    T he doctor who was insensitive to Julie was my first bad experience with a physician but, unfortunately, not the last.
    Several years ago, there was a play on Broadway called
The Tale of the Allergist’s Wife
. I’ll tell you a tale of an allergist. I don’t know if this allergist has a wife, but if he does I’ll bet she could tell
     a heck of a tale.
    A few years ago I was having an unusually aggressive attack of allergies. I’m fortunate enough to live around a lot of trees.
     At certain times of the year, and it feels like a
lot
of times, those trees, with all due respect, throw off a lot of pollen, not to mention the pollen thrown off by the bushes
     and grass. Don’t get me wrong. I absolutely hold the trees, the bushes, and the grass in the highest esteem, but sometimes
     they
do
throw off a lot of pollen, and this time I was sneezing my head off. Hey! Nothing’s perfect.
    So I asked my local medical office if they could recommend an allergist. I’d never been to an allergist, but the sneezing
     had gotten to a point that I felt the time had come. My intention was to ask the doctor to suggest something perhaps stronger
     than the over-the-counter medications I’d been taking for the sneezing.
    I sat alone in the waiting room for a while, and then this tall young guy who had shaved his head walked by. He was wearing
     the white jacket, so I assumed he was the allergist. He was. He didn’t even glance at me.
    Soon, a nurse appeared, took me into a small room, and asked me to blow into a tube. She made some notes and then disappeared.
     She came back a few minutes later and said, “The doctor feels you should be able to do better than that.” So I gave it all
     I had. She made some more notes, disappeared again, came back after a few minutes, and said words to the effect that the doctor
     somehow thought I was cheating.
    I assured her I wasn’t, and pretty soon the allergist appeared. He probably said hello, but that was it. Clearly, he had little
     use for small talk or
any
talk about exactly why I was there.
    He began looking in my ears, then up my nose, and then down my throat. He still did not say a word. Then he asked me to lie
     down, took out a stethoscope, and began listening to my heart. Still not a word.
    At that point, I considered getting up and walking out, which I’d never done in my life—in a doctor’s office, anyway. He looked
     at me very solemnly and said, “I hear a murmur.” I looked at him and said, “I’ve been examined regularly since I was born,
     and no one has ever said that.” He said, “I’m a musician, and I have a very keen sense of hearing. Some murmurs are meaningless,
     and some aren’t.” He suggested I see a cardiologist.
    Still not one word about my sneezing. I said some things to him I’ve blocked out—no profanity, but I walked out and drove
     over to my internist, who briefly examined me and said, “You have a negligible murmur which isn’t even worth mentioning.”
    I did go to a