Page 15 of The Devil You Know
Mr. Hirsch cups his hand around his ear. “Eh?”
And he’s deaf too, despite the fact that he’s got hearing aids in both ears. That explains why I thought he no-showed. Barbara probably called his name once and gave up when he didn’t answer.
“Is your back hurting you?” I say louder.
“What did you say?” he says.
The problem with hard of hearing patients is that they have trouble hearing high-pitched voices—like, say,women’svoices. And when people raise their voice to yell, thatraisesthe pitch of their voices. So by yelling, I’mactually making things worse. The strategy is to yell in a baritone.
I lower my voice, channeling Barry White, “IS YOUR BACK HURTING YOU TODAY?”
Finally, the patient nods. “Well, I've been constipated for the past six months or so…”
Damn it.
I shake my head. “You made an appointment for your back bothering you. Do you have back pain?”
“Oh.” Mr. Hirsch nods. “Yes.”
My throat is starting to hurt from the way I’m talking. “How bad is your back pain on a scale of one to ten?”
He nods. “The constipation is pretty bad.”
Damn it.
“We’re supposed to be talking about your back pain,” I remind him. Although it’s not clear he’s understood a word I’ve said. “On a scale of one to ten, where ten is the worst pain ever, what is your BACK PAIN?”
Mr. Hirsch thinks for a minute. “Thirty percent.”
I can’t even imagine what he thinks I just asked him.
“Also,” he adds, “this constipation has really been bothering me.”
I clench my teeth. I’m supposed to be addressing this man’s back pain. That’s what he scheduled the appointment for.
Mr. Hirsch reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little bottle of pills. “I’m taking this medication here. It’s for constipation but it hasn’t been working that well.”
Okay, apparently, we are talking about constipation today.
_____
By the time I finish up with Mr. Hirsch, sending my back pain patient on his way with a prescription for a laxative and instructions to eat more fiber, I just barely have time to make it to Leah’s preschool. As I expected, I can’t find parking in the small lot in front of the school, so I have to park in the lot of the adjacent supermarket and hoof it. Luckily, I have my puffy coat to keep me warm.
As I walk over, I keep an eye out for Ben’s Prius. I don’t see it anywhere. He better get here soon.
I’m grateful for the whoosh of warm air as I enter the basement that makes up Mila’s preschool. There isn’t an obvious place to leave my coat, so I just stuff it in Leah’s cubby. Mila has all the children lined up adorably in the back of the room. Leah notices me and looks like she’s about to rush over to give me a hug, but Mila keeps her in line with a sharp look and wag of her finger.
Now that the kids are lined up, I can’t help but notice that Leah is the only one not wearing a dress. She wanted to wear a shirt this morning that has Anna and Elsa fromFrozenframed in a heart, and we paired it with somewarm pink pants. But now it occurs to me that sheobviouslywas supposed to dress in something fancy for this concert. What iswrongwith me? Why didn’t I put her in a dress?
I’m the worst mother ever. This will probably be something she’ll be describing in therapy years from now.Everyone else was wearing a dress except me…
Oh well. Nothing I can do about it now.
I look around the room, straining my neck to see if Ben has arrived. So far, there’s no sign of him. He’s got two minutes till the concert is supposed to start and Mila isn’t going to wait.
Damn it, Ben. Where are you?
My phone buzzes with a text message from Ben:Just parked. Walking over.
