I'm just like anyone. I cut and I bleed. And I embarrass easily. -Michael Jackson

I couldn't believe that my first medical job would be as a personal physician. There I was: twenty-six years old with a PhD in one fist and a crap-load of possibilities in the other. My boss, who happened to be one of the most respected doctors in New Orleans- Maybe even all of Louisiana- was handing me off to a man in need of a live-in physician. My new boss lived in California. I wouldn't know his name, age or condition until I was off of the plane and in my rental, on my way to his home.

I followed the map my new boss had sent me and got lost several times. He lived out in the middle of nowhere. He wrote in the margin, however, that it was very large and impossible to miss. I was quickly proving him wrong. Frustrated as I was, I kept driving until I nearly drove into a the gate of a mansion. I hadn't missed it, it was just in the middle of nowhere of the middle of nowhere. Pushing my thick blond curls away from my face, I squinted my eyes against the glaring sun and tried to make out the words on the gate.

Neverland Ranch

No way. This had to be a mistake. I picked up my phone to call my old boss and right on Que, it rang. I fumbled with it until I had it on and held correctly to my ear.

"Frank," I said breathlessly. "You've got to be shitting me." He chuckled on the other end.

"I take it you made it alright, hmm?" He said.

"You assigned me to-are you kidding? Michael Jackson?"

"I thought you'd like it." I could hear Frank's big grin as he spoke. My mouth opened and closed several times and the only sounds I could manage were weak squeaks of protest. Frank cleared his throat, a motion he always took when throwing forth his authority.

"Listen, Christine. He called everywhere and when he finally got to me, he asked for my best doctor. That's why you're there. You're the best he could have asked for. You know what you're doing, you're the smartest person I've seen in a long time. And trust me, I've been at this hospital longer than you've been alive. Trust me, you'll do great."

"Frank, I don't know anything about the guy. The only song I know is 'Thriller.' What's his condition, anyway? Shouldn't I know that, at least?" He sighed, clearly irritated.

"He's a fifty-year-old pop star, Christine. He's going to be touring and he just wants to be safe. Jesus Christ, Chris. He's paying you a shit-load of money. Can't you just thank me, hang up the phone and go meet the man?" I sighed in turn and it slowly turned into a frustrated groan but I nodded, said my thanks and hung up the phone. After I stuffed my phone into my blue and green Tootsie Roll-shaped purse and tied up my mass of blond curls, I climbed out of my rental and shielded my eyes from the sun with one hand while I examined the gate and driveway that inevitably led up to a very large house. As I looked around, I saw a golf cart slowly making its way down the drive. Driving it was a man in a white long-sleeved shirt tucked into black jeans, sunglasses and holding an umbrella.