Well...sort of okay 2

A hands on sort of doc, I’ve been known to personally tote samples for analysis from restroom to lab. One day, I teetered while toting, splashing the specimen on the front of my shirt.

“Oh well,” I shrugged. “Waste is a terrible thing to mind.”

My mantra that day? I’m okay with urine, I’m okay with urine.

The last dance

Grandma’s cancer showed up first as a clot in her leg. Two months to diagnosis and a year to her death.

Mary showed me tender red cords on the back of her leg; she was scheduled to dance in ballet class later that day. One week to diagnosis--thanks to Grandma-- and a year to her death.

Taking great pains with patients

She limped in and plopped on a chair. Smiling brightly, she asked how I was.

“Worried,” I replied. “You’re getting Vicodin from three different docs.”

Eyes wide in a ‘Moi?’ sort of way, she phoned her husband--had he picked up these meds?

Our eyes met as tears formed and rolled down her cheeks. She closed up her phone.

A trip down denial

Advil is her friend and her foe.  A health professional with serious pain, she struggles as well with her fear and her bank balance.

Her latest labs come in; D now stands for dialysis and not just denial.  I call with the news.  A teenager sets down the phone as she yells for her mom.  

False pride

Good hair day today so I had to head to the head to take it in once more.  Just a glance, can’t keep my first patient waiting.  Turned slowly in front of the mirror, big smile (teeth looking good too!).  But then...

Two stethoscopes hanging around my neck.  Music grinds to a halt.  Exit laughing.

What am I missing here?

He’s three months short of college graduation.  His mom did most of the talking.  Two years, three symptoms, zero diagnoses.

His exam and his nodes were normal.  No need for tests; it’s dry air and bad posture.  He claimed he felt calmed. 

All this training, all this acumen, and I still don’t know what they needed.

Not so bad after all

It’s lung carcinoma.”

I was crying in the rain, drenched in bad news,  phone pressed to ear. Not surprised by the diagnosis yet completely speechless.

The surgeon was puzzled by my tears: “We did expect this”.

She smiled later as we talked, “Either I’ll die or I won’t.”

And she didn’t. Not for 17 years.

A hint of hope

The young engineer sat bolt upright in his chair, eyes fixed on the floor.

"Anything different on Prozac?"

"Well, perhaps a little less agony."

Ouch.

"Are you keeping up at work?"

"I'm compliant."

Compliant?!?

"Dude," I declared, we've got more work to do!"

With a hint of a smile, he lifted his gaze to mine.

Well...sort of okay

No warm fuzzy doc this radiation MD.  He reassured us not with his discussion of “gray units,”  “fields,” and “we’ll shield your eye.” (Oh now I feel better! A lesson in physics but the subject’s his face!)

“Are you okay with this?” I asked.

“Sure, no problem,” he declared, backing his beloved Jeep Cherokee into a pole.

One count against him

Phone message at two a.m.:  Quest Labs calling with “critical results”.  Oh no, Mr. G. has a white blood cell count over 100,000.

Damn.

No point ruining his sleep.  Morning will come too soon enough.  Meanwhile, I’ll lie wide awake for both of us, thinking of this family man whose shortened life has changed forever.

Dogs, Dung, and D-ficiency

“What fills your heart with joy?”

“My two Italian greyhounds!” 

Their 60-something owner, her skin Minnesota white and muscles undefined, complained that scooping poop was nearly impossible.

“Hurts the back?”

“That and weak, so weak,” she replied and used both arms to struggle from her chair.

This is more than out of shape, I thought, and ordered tests.

Eulogy for a gardener

Why did Dani die?

She overcame alcoholism, sepsis, and pancreatitis to become a gardener.  I  saw her in September; her boyfriend had ‘stolen’ her methadone.  Her next appearance was in the October obits.

I drove crosstown through sleet to the funeral, arrived, alas, ten minutes late.  The service was already over.  What sort of send-off was that?

No brains. Period.

First we chatted a bit, two like-minded women just shooting the breeze.  Joan told me about last year’s hysterectomy; she finally dares again to wear white!

Squinting at my watch (where ARE my darn glasses??), I shifted position and grabbed for my pen.  Time to get down to the annual exam.

“So,” I began, “Periods still heavy?”

Caught in my civvies

Ms. C looked, as always, like a million bucks.  Fresh from church, she wore matching hat, bag, and heels, her suit a resplendent royal blue.  She hailed me in the produce department.

“Ms. C, you look fabulous,” I enthused after a hug.

“And you, Doc,” she began, her eyes sweeping down over sweatshirt and pants. “You look...comfortable.”

Whose headache is this?

Oy, Barbara B. is requesting more narcs. An on-line check confirms my fears--four different docs doling benzos and Percs.

In office, she’s misery embodied, waifish voice barely heard, partner stroking her arm.  Part drama, part pain, no knowing what’s what.

Five phone calls, the last one to Barb.  I’m no longer the problem, but what’s the solution?

A curry-ous case

Green curry, rice, and a doughnut for lunch. (Eat as I say, not as I chew!)

I’m good to go for my first p.m. visit, then a carb-laden cloud rolls over my brain.  Chin heads to chest, I struggle with eyelids.  My patient drones on about issues, but suddenly stops, eyeing me with alarm.

“Are you okay?

A window to her soul

Overweight, and diabetic, she shut me down with mono-syllables.

“Watching your diet?”

“No.”

“Exercising”

“No.”  This punctuated with a lift of the lip.

“Anything special for Christmas?”

“Why yes.” She shifted, eyes widened.  “I decorate my apartment, especially the window.”

She e-mailed a pic of the window dressing. Shimmering, bejeweled, it sparkled like her eyes at the end of our visit.

Time to pass it on!

Lillian works full-time in food prep, fingers and toes in arthritic twists.  Her face pale and drawn, feet afire with gout.

“You need a cane,” I urge. And so much more...

She gives an ‘as-if’ sort of shrug.

“Hold on a sec,” I advise.  Return post-haste with my mom’s walnut cane. Here, I conclude, is one worthy heir.

Reflux redux

Carol complained of acid reflux.  On the exam table that day, her abdomen rose like a nine month pregnancy...but she wasn’t.

“Am I in trouble doc?” she asked when she saw my face fall.

The gynecologist delivered a twenty pound ovarian tumor.  As promised to Carol, I scrubbed in and watched.

The path report was, thank heavens, benign!

Thanks...I guess

My old patient had on a good-looking jaunty wig and a leopard-print top.  She smiled at me and said I was cute. 

Nice perhaps, looking good for my age, but cute?

I thanked her but questioned the adjective.

“No honey,” she enthused.  “You are cute.  You and your pony tail and your little purple nose.”

Say what?

Can I be saved?

A first year teacher, lots of exposure, frequent colds.  This one was bad--severe sore throat, painful cough, no voice at all.

I knew the answer, but looked him over for the hands-on touch.

“Son (I didn’t really call him that), you’ve got a helluva virus.”

He grabbed a pen and pad, looked up anxiously,  “Could you spell that?”

The kid and I in 30-some years?

Bea still drives; she’s 91.  Son Gabe’s a sprout of 72.  He seemed down, so she brought him by for a morning visit.

“Doctor,” she began after both sat down, “He doesn’t do anything, he just mopes in the house!  He should get out and be with his friends.”

“Mo’om” he wailed, stretching two syllables from one.

An unstructured life

I’d asked Linda in to discuss her bone density.  The usual stuff--enough bone to get through her life but no more must be lost.  Calcium, D, exercise, drugs...

Wait!  We’ve got tears, lots of them.  What’s going on?  This can’t be just bone!

Lost job, lost love, no bones about it.  What’s the drug for lost hope?

Pet therapy

Carol warned me last minute; she’d scheduled this appointment to ‘fess up to hubby a large credit card debt. 

Yikes!  Have I lost my mind? He’s Hell’s Angel scary, she’s frightened and thin.

By sheer luck, my dog was the fourth in the exam room that day.  Five scrawny pounds, a lap technician working her charms.

A couple of problems

Mr. C. came for his physical, his wife in tow.  As I took his history, she sat quietly, lips pressed firmly in a downward line.

"So how do you spend your days?" I asked.

He pondered the question, smiling slightly as he considered his answer.

"He doesn't do a goddamn thing," came a thin, angry voice from behind.