Page 35 of The Devil You Know
So this is normal for him. He’s probably headed for a stroke or heart attack or something else bad, but not in the next day. Eventually though.
“Have you been taking the medications I prescribed for your blood pressure?” I ask Mr. McAuliffe.
“Eh?” Mr. McAuliffe says.
Approximately ninety percent of my patients are deaf. That’s probably why every patient with normal hearing keeps asking me why I’m screaming.
“I have his medications here,” his daughter tells me.
And then she pulls out The Sack.
The Sack refers to the giant bag that some large percentage of elderly people toss their pill bottles into. Then, as far as I can tell, they just reach in to take whatever medication they randomly pull out. I hate The Sack.
Mr. McAuliffe’s sack is a big black garbage bag. I start rifling through it, pulling out half-filled bottles of pills. Before I’m done, I’ve lined up two bottles ofamlodipine, three bottles of atenolol andfourbottles of hydrochlorothiazide, all blood pressure lowering medications.
“Do you help him with his medications?” I ask the daughter.
She shakes her head. “No, he can do it himself.”
“Mr. McAuliffe.” I face my patient, who is scratching absently at a scab on his balding scalp that is probably skin cancer. But one thing at a time. “Are you taking pills fromallthese bottles?”
Mr. McAuliffe stares blankly at the bottles. “No, just the ones I’m supposed to.”
“He knows what he’s doing,” the daughter assures me.
“Mr. McAuliffe,” I say again. “What month is it?”
“Uh…” He thinks for a minute. “June? Or is it July yet?”
The parking lot is literally coated in snow. I glance at the daughter, who looks slightly pale.
“And what year is it?” I ask.
“It’s…” He thinks again, finally trailing off and possibly forgetting my question.
“What year is it?” I press him.
He scratches his skin cancer again. “It’s 1967, I think.”
“Oh my God,” the daughter murmurs. “He’s been paying his own bills too. No wonder the power got shut off!”
I extract a solemn promise from Mr. McAuliffe’s daughter to supervise her father on his medications, although we have to start from scratch considering we don’t know what he’d been actually taking. She seems to understand how serious the situation is. Daughters are usually good in that respect. When you get old, it’s way better to have daughters than sons. Daughters usually take care of their elderly parents. Sons, less so.
It’s not a surprise that the next patient on my list is Herman Katz. It’s been a whole week and a half since his last visit to see me. That might be some kind of record. Under reason for the visit, it says, “Worried about arms.”
Huh. That’s a new one.
“So what’s going on, Mr. Katz?” I ask him.
Mr. Katz slumps forward on the examining table. His gut strains slightly against the fabric of his gown. “I’m really worried, Dr. McGill.”
I put on my most concerned and caring expression. “Why are you worried?”
“Well…” He takes a deep breath, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. “When I walk, I just feel like… like my arms are rubbing against my chest. I mean, a lot more than they used to.” He bites his lip. “I think… could it be cancer?”
“I don’t think you have cancer,” I say.
I see some of the tension leave his face. “Really? Then what could cause that?”
