The Examination

The first thing Bill noticed on that Thursday morning visit was how cool this physician's hand was. It wasn't that damp coldness some have—intimating fear and tension, no matter how reassuring the words. No, this was a mild coolness, harder to read—dry, neutral, yet shrinking the skin away slightly, a hint of discomfort. After the handshake and greeting, Bill absorbed the room's ambiance—examination areas varied from sterile to homey, and a careful look yielded a world of information. He valued any visual evidence of creativity—photographs, drawings (a sculpture would be asking too much). Any artwork was helpful, even if purchased rather than made.

Next came the examination—that was why he was here. There were a lot of issues to be raised, a lot of problems to think through, hard work ahead. The initial presentation was always the same: Bill with his symptoms—how long and where, how much and how often. Each visit had a life of its own, depending on the direction the healer needed or wanted to go. Most basic was the history—a world of information could be conveyed, clarified, implied, or revealed in the line of inquiry. Some asked little, or almost nothing, but conveyed and received so much through their other powers that it wasn't a drawback. This physician was asking his questions now, going over the chronology again, touching on the edge of Bill's dietary habits, breezing past the thick emotional and psychological forces that were woven into his body's ailments to form a chemical and spiritual tapestry. Most questions were too blunt, phrased to discourage revelation.

Then came the physical evaluation. As the physician gently probed his abdomen from side to side, Bill could feel knowledge behind the hands, but its depth, and how much wisdom lay behind it, were yet to be revealed. Bill did his own careful reading of the facial expressions and manner of touch; both men sought answers that lay deep beneath the skin, answers upon which one's universe might rotate and change. Each healer Bill had seen before had evaluated his body in a unique way, even if the training was the same, in search of a solution that would resonate, illuminate, clarify. Every examination was an adventure, an education. With this particular physician, Bill was prepared to submit to a combination of questions, physical touching, blood tests, and x-rays. He'd been through this type of examination before—it wasn't his favorite approach, but he made allowances for the orientation and philosophy of each healer seen.

Lying on the table, he focused more on the physician's breathing, changing hand temperature, inflection of voice, and body language. Bill's joints were being examined. There was a certain firmness and confidence in the physician's hands that was reassuring, as if these particular movements were more comfortable to him. It reminded Bill of an osteopath he once saw whose examination left him excited with energy and awareness well before they had finished the visit. As the physician leaned forward to look into his retina, bringing their faces almost in contact, Bill inhaled softly to gather the odors more fully—these were complex and would require sifting later, when there was time for reflection and analysis. Odors were the most difficult to analyze, and experience helped only to a limited degree. There was no retrieval of neurons lost millions of years ago, of all that lost knowledge. Bill was aware of just how primitive his olfactory sense was (a pity humans had lost so much of that useful tool).

The most delicate part of the examination for Bill was trying to sense the faint auras and bioelectromagnetic fields emanating from the healer—especially because this particular physician did not use these modalities himself. Indeed, he seemed oblivious to them. Being physically removed weakened the energy, yet touching could confuse matters by closing a contact that blurred the field and complicated it, even though the resulting combined energies were worthy of study in their own right. Healers who routinely used such energies had scanned their hands slowly above his body in a careful pattern, and he could read what he needed simultaneously. Bill remembered one who allowed him to hold his own hands over hers while she scanned and yielded to his silent questions.

While the physician wrote prescriptions and went over findings and recommendations, Bill listened intently to hear if the doctor's words conveyed consistent and coherent information. As the listened, he formulated questions in his mind. Bill always asked questions that opened wedges of doubt about the diagnosis and remedies offered—fundamental doubts rather than specific ones. After many years, he was quite proficient in asking questions that required the healer to confront the fact that many interpretations and approaches to Bill's symptoms existed. This was a critical part of the examination. A few healers rose to the challenge, looked at him thoughtfully with true curiosity and asked questions back, but he had seen many reactions, including ridicule and curt dismissal. He always looked into their eyes while they spoke.

The examination was over and the physician rose to leave. Bill always offered his hand when arriving and leaving—it was a common courtesy, of course, but was also the only time he could lay his own hands on the healer's in an acceptable way. As he shook the physician's hand, Bill asked, “Thanks so much. And how are you doing?”

“Me? … Oh, fair. Just fine, thanks. I'll be calling you.”

“Good. Take care of yourself.”

Fair was an accurate assessment, Bill thought. He's probably in the low- or mid-B range for most areas judged, A- on overall touch (the coolness was still an issue), C in emotional intuition and receptive energies, a few areas still to sort out. This was a complex process—few were fully qualified to perform the job, but these evaluations were of tremendous value to patients and, aside from being required, were greatly appreciated. He would write his report in the morning, as usual, before going to the next healer for another examination. Never two in one day, because that made a jumble of the subtle findings and the danger of spillover was real. Like most professionals, Bill had his stories—he'd never forget the shaman he had visited in New Mexico. It had taken 2 days to write that up and a week to revert to his basal testing state so he could do another examination.

• Copyright ©2004 by the American College of Physicians