Show and smell

M was annoyed and didn’t look well. She rummaged in her purse, then tossed a Ziploc bag on the desk.

Uh-oh, close encounters of the turd kind. Could’ve figured this out sans sample!

She rose at visit’s end, went to leave without Exhibit A.

“Would you mind throwing out...that?”

So she did, right into the basket underneath my desk.

Lady Madonna

She was nursing her son as I entered the room. Long brown hair cascaded over her shoulders; she smiled and mentioned two special needs toddlers home now with Dad.

Sated and overcome with curiosity, her baby turned, flashing a total body grin at me. This tiny dynamo was long on enthusiasm, energy, and chromosome 23.

And now it's too late

Jeanette was always tired and always in pain. A consultation of experts and I couldn’t figure out why.

One afternoon, she napped in her rocking chair and never woke up. Still, she sang at her funeral; her recorded voice like an angel’s, husky and haunting. I didn’t know she sang. I never asked, she never said.

Hair today, here tomorrow

Two friends shared cancer and chemo, enduring, in tandem, the ebb and grow of hair. R’s grew back in darling ringlets; K sent new growth up in fright wig style.

Waiting for haircuts, a tweenager stared at K and nudged his mom: “That’s how I want my hair to look.”

K roared with laughter, survivor style.

Nothing simple about being old

Eighty-something, on seven drugs, six supplements, and under the care of nine different doctors including four different orthopedists for as many body parts. She wanted to discuss simplifying her care.

As she left the office, she caught her leg on the car door, peeling the fragile skin back like tissue paper. So much for simplification.

So who's the "Glamor Don't"?

I ushered my patient into a room thinking “I wish I could carry off high-heeled boots with such ease.”

She, in turn, regarded me with curiosity as she eased into her seat. Adjusting her tiny skirt, she remarked “Well you’re not exactly styling today.”.

I waited for the ‘just kidding’ to follow, but, alas, it never did.

The lady and the stats

She’d walk each day to the store, a cane in one hand, cigarette in the other. She quit at age 90, walking... not smoking.

Shortly after her 93rd, I sat beside her on the tiled bathroom floor waiting for the paramedics to arrive.

One-third of old ladies die within a year of a hip fracture.

Damn statistics.

One foot away from a normal life

The room was quiet save for the hiss and whir of metered pumps and vacuum drains. Her foot had slipped from the covers, the toes perfectly appointed with rosy polish.

She moaned softly in her drugged sleep. I thought of how just last week she surely groaned with pleasure as her feet slipped into the suds.

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.