t would be nice to be a doctor, I've sometimes thought. If you began to feel something go wrong, you could diagnose yourself. You'd know what you were in for. There'd be no surprises, and all pain and discomfort would be mitigated by an awareness of the path ahead, the forks you'd come to, and the choices to be made. I don't think being a doctor would make your stomach hurt less, or your head or your leg not ache, or your heart not break. But surely, with a fund of knowledge about symptoms, causes, effects, and—yes—pain, you would be better prepared. If not to cure your troubles, then at least to face them. This, anyway, was my feeling as I awoke one morning to what promised to be another day of pain. It wasn't crippling, but it was limiting, and with each day, more draining, more demoralizing. It had started with two weeks of intermittent back and hip discomfort,
