Page 32 of Axe-identally Married
The billing alone was exhausting. At this point, I repeated the ICD-9 codes in my sleep.
Medical school had taught me a lot about the body and how it worked.
Residency had taught me how to triage injuries, diagnose illness, and treat patients.
But nothing could have prepared me for the packed waiting room that greeted me every day and the range of people who needed my help.
The endless paperwork, the outdated systems, the needless hoops for preapprovals.
The hospital in Baltimore had teams of people to handle all the behind-the-scenes work. Here, it was me and a small handful of people.
“Blondie,” Dr. Walters barked while stirring a packet of Splenda into his morning tea. “Has your generation ever heard an arrythmia, or do you just snaptok about them?”
He loved nothing more than razzing me about my youth and the failings of my generation. And he was sure to remind me at least once a day that he had been in the delivery room the day I was born.
And in turn, I enjoyed reminding him that he was older than dirt.
“Where were you when Lincoln was assassinated?” was my sugary sweet response.
Brow furrowed, he waved a hand dismissively. “I know you’re busy with your new husband—the wife says congrats, by the way—but you can’t lose focus.”
Mrs. Walters was a delight. In fact, she had sent me a lovely plant for my office as a “thanks for taking him off my hands” gift when we’d convinced him to come out of retirement for a few months.
“Your charting is a mess. You rely on technology too much. Can you even manually take blood pressure?”
Of course I could. But still, I yanked the small pad from my coat pocket and scratched out notes as he spoke. As much as he loved to annoy me, he did take my development as a physician seriously.
“Also, you’re on peds today. Waiting room is full of runny noses.”
With a grunt, I gave him a mock salute. On any given day between October and May, there was a handful of kids home sick from school, and it was our job to work them in between appointments. Dr. Walters always pawned them off on me, saying he couldn’t afford to catch what they were spreading at his age.
“Dr. Savard. You’ve got a patient in exam room two,” Dawn barked, walking briskly down the hall.
At her command, I grabbed a surgical mask and got ready to start my day.
Kayleigh Whitlock was seven and had double ear infections. Her twin brother, Kayden, was sitting on the floor playing on his iPad while I swabbed her for strep.
“So you’re a real doctor now?” Mrs. Whitlock asked, her voice high and anxious. “Dr. Walters isn’t available.”
I forced a smile and focused on examining Kayleigh, slipping the swab into the plastic container that would keep the sample from getting contaminated. “Yes, ma’am. Board certified andall.” I wasn’t going to launch into a full recitation of my résumé for this woman. At this point, most people in town had fully reviewed my qualifications.
She gave me a tight smile while I examined Kayleigh’s glands.
“Dr. Willa.” The little girl’s voice was scratchy. Poor kid was miserable. “Why don’t you have a ring?”
“Hmm?” I asked, mentally noting that her glands weren’t swollen.
“A wedding ring.” The little girl pointed to her own finger. “My mom said you got married.”
“I did.” I turned to wash my hands at the small exam room sink.
“And she said your husband is a snack.”
“Kayleigh,” her mother snapped.
My face heated with embarrassment, but at the same time, it took effort not to burst into laughter. This was one of the many reasons I loved treating kids. They said whatever the hell they wanted.
Lips pressed together, I inhaled through my nose and composed myself. When I was certain I could keep a neutral expression, I looked over at Mrs. Whitlock with a raised eyebrow.
