What can YOU say in six sentences?
He is laid back and physically unassuming and completely not what I expected in a Beverly Hills cardiologist.
When he sees on my chart what I do for a living, he engages me in a conversation about Hollywood, jazz, politics, film and the state of cultural arts in Los Angeles because although he is a cardiologist by day, he is a jazz pianist by night.
What has brought me to his office on a rare grey Elizabeth Kubler Ross L.A. day is the constant pain in my chest; it is ceaseless and I have convinced myself death is on the horizon because I am prone to fits of melodrama and would hate to think the years of practicing my Camille had been for naught.
I am snared in his web of affability and find I tell him things - personal things - about my life - that are none of my goddamn business, by which I mean, that somethings are best left unsaid because by giving them voice it lends credence to the possibility they may be (wait for it...) true and altogether depressing.
We talk about Marilyn McCoo and jazz and the life of a musician versus the life of a physician, and I can tell he is restless and sad, "Tell me about the pain," he says, and I comply and tell him it never leaves me - never abates.
"Sometimes it feels like the whole world's heart is breaking," he says, and I nod in agreement.