“Let ME finish making the bed and YOU advise Genevieve if she is having a heart attack,” I bargain with my husband, Joe.

Joe and I have always divided the common labors of a long marriage based on talents, skills and interests. It has been a fair distribution.  I feed the cats and he changes the litter. When it comes to medical questions we double-team it.

He is a physician, board certified in nephrology, internal medicine and emergency medicine and I am, well, a doctor’s wife. This may not seem equivalent to four years of medical school, four years of residency, a fellowship and forty years of experience but I get by. After all, I have good intentions and as a child I intended to be a doctor, someday.

At nine I announced to my mother that I would become a doctor when I was grown. This was the result of being born Jewish and having no interest in Law. I began my studies with The Golden Book of Science series followed up by focused years of media education with The Fugitive, Marcus Welby, MD and Dr. Kildare.

I lived for the day when I would be a candy-striper and start my medical career. Finally the summer of my 14^thth year I was accepted in a volunteer candy-stripe hospital program. I got my cute pink and white striped pinafore with the two wide pockets in the front, worn with my crispy clean white blouse and junior nurse cap.

On my first day I was brought to a medical-surgical floor and told to refresh the pink water jugs on the patient tables. After my third room I was in a full blown panic attack. I worried about what to say to the patients, what slime and blood and guts I might have to see in the next room and what I could catch just running in and out. I was certain germs of Typhoid, Polio and Cancer were lurking on every surface and in every cubic centimeter of oxygen. I feared I was only one touch and one inhalation away from a terminal disease. I began taking a deep breath before entering each patient’s room and holding it throughout my brief stay. Of course, if the patient spoke to me I was unable to respond, unless I breathed.

After two weeks of this I asked to be transferred to the hospital café where I mastered the art of carrying tea in cups without spilling. That was the sum of my medical knowledge gathered that summer.

When I faced the facts that medical school was probably not in my future, I opted for the next best way to honor my vow to my mother: marry a doctor and carry on without credentials. Luckily, I also love my husband so it has worked out. As I said he is happy to have a co-doctor living in the same house with him and he is generous with sharing all the work.

I make up for my lack of board certifications with sincerity. I am even willing to make house calls, especially on Saturday nights when my patients’ parties are in full swing. My friends are happy to give me their medical updates, especially when Joe is called away to emergencies at the dessert table. This is something that frequently happens just as they turn to him to say, “Do you mind if I ask you a medical question……?”

Unlike my husband who has to listen to multiple complaints and litanies of symptoms every day, I still have enthusiasm for the clinical quest. Since I am just a very part-time doctor I have endless curiosity about symptoms. I even have an interest in home remedies that Joe considers bogus like donut-free diets.

Unlike Joe I am not dependent on clinical findings or gathering what he calls “the facts.” I am swift and efficient and don’t rely on costly lab tests or x-rays. He actually considers it malpractice to diagnose without lab results and reminds me of the importance of taking blood pressure, pulse, physical exam, blood and getting appropriate imaging.

Diagnosing remotely or not performing a physical exam never troubles me. He, on the other hand, is a medical snob, insisting on clinical studies and the examination of symptoms. His famous saying is “hold the phone up to that rash” as he tries to explain why he can’t diagnose without seeing and touching the patient.

Oh bother, I say. My diagnoses are guided by more than mere facts. I lead with the intuition of a Jewish mother, information he can’t ever access. I cite the time our son fell and injured his arm. I knew from his cry that his arm was broken, although Dr. Smarty Pants disagreed. Without hesitation he said, “Take him to the ER if you want to but I’m sure it isn’t broken.” The cast was applied following the x-ray.

Over the years of maintaining a successful co-practice, my friends have now blurred the boundaries and consult me when the other doctor is unavailable. But frankly, sometimes I am in over my head, like the recent email I got from Genevieve. She lives in a remote part of Guatemala, far from any medical hub.

She wrote: “I’ve been having sharp chest pains for the last couple of days and in the middle of the night last night it got so bad I thought I was having a heart attack. Left arm completely numb and seems to be concentrated in the pointer finger knuckle.”

I tried to pique Joe’s interest but he put me off in favor of making the bed and his morning coffee. Did I mention he’s not one to panic?

What’s a co-doctor to do? In this case, I had to fly solo.

I quickly decided on the treatment plan and drafted a response:  “My instincts tell me you should go to the ER and have an evaluation.  Probably nothing serious but it is hard to tell without the basic information (EKG and chest X-ray).  Let me know what happens.”  To ensure she followed the advice I did what I always do in these situations: I signed the email “Joe”.