In 1971 we moved to a small town in eastern Oregon, Enterprise by name—a peaceful little town nestled at the base of the Wallowa Mountains. The mountains were often referred to as the Alps of America. No cardiologist resided in this sleepy little town. A drive of fifty miles west to LaGrande turned out to be the closest place one could be found.
Since we, at this time, had no medical insurance and the job promised to Larry before we moved vanished when we arrived, we were, as they say, broke. Therefore, after we’d been there several months and my medication for the tachycardia ran out I made a decision. The trek to LaGrande was too costly, a visit with a doctor even more, so after talking it over with the Lord I put my life in His hands and trusted Him to take care of my medical needs.
The heart problem gradually decreased till it was no more. I found out, though, that I couldn’t take anything for pain like Excedrin or drink anything with much caffeine. This I could live with.
Then in 1976 we moved on to Missoula, Montana looking for steadier work than could be found in such a small place. One of the first things I did when we arrived in new city was find a doctor, an OB-GYN. This I’d been admonished by the Air Force doctor in Arizona to do and schedule a yearly checkup and make sure it included a Pap smear.
This I did every where we went. I found Dr. Pitts in Missoula and he proved to be good fit for me. He took great interest in my medical history and set out to watch over me. There’s a funny story about my first visit to his office. If you’re a woman you’ve no doubt seen a gynecologist. There you sit in the examining room on the table--with the stirrups—in your rustling paper “gown” and very little else feeling so vulnerable. And there I sat waiting for someone I didn’t know.
The nurse left me there with, “the doctor will be in shortly.” Okay. I sat and stared off into space after I’d checked out the room. Nothing out of the ordinary there, merely the pictures you’d normally find of various female parts and a baby in utero. A knock on the door and the doctor opened it, then stood there clipboard in hand. He looked at the clipboard, looked at me, looked down at the clipboard, looked at me again. He closed the door without entering leaving me wondering what was up.
A few minutes passed then he knocked and re-entered. I’m sure he noticed the questioning look on my face as he said, ”You’re Beverly Luke?”
“Yes.”
“Your patient record says you’re thirty-seven and when I looked in a minute ago I thought you were an eighteen year old girl.”
Astonished I could only chuckle and say, “Really I am thirty-seven.”
After a couple of years on my third visit to him he approached me with an idea he had since my cancer history intrigued him. I’ll write next time about what he proposed to do and the outcome.
