Helen Kapowicz was a general practitioner af-filiated with Maine Medical Center in Portland. It was Mel who found her in the phone book, Mel who arranged the appointment, Mel who drove me to Portland because I didn’t trust myself to drive that far. After the words we’d had, I wasn’t sure she would even speak to me again. But I should have known better. Melanie Ambrose might passionately hate my husband, but she had nothing but compassion for me. I wasn’t sure how I’d ever pay her back. When I told her that, she gripped the steering wheel so hard her fingers turned white and said grimly, “I couldn’t help my sister. But I’ll be damned if I’m letting you go down without a fight.” Dr. Kapowicz was an older lady who listened patiently to my complaints—and to her credit, didn’t even suggest I might be crazy—before she had me disrobe for the exam. She was thorough. She checked my heartbeat, my pulse and my reflexes, took my blood pressure and my temp, studied my eyes and ears with her little pocket light.
