Page 6 of The Devil You Know
Generally, the next step in the testicular exam is transillumination. To do this, youturn off all the lights in the examining room and hold a bright light to the posterior of the testicle with one hand. If you’re a female, you should probably be holding a rape whistle at this point.
In any case, I don’t see any utility in transilluminating Mr. Burnham’s testicle. There’s nothing there. And even if he did have a cyst, it wouldn’t explain how much testicle pain he’s having.
Jason Burnham’s eyebrows knit together. “So what’s causing this, Dr. McGill?”
I have no clue. But that’s the great thing about primary care.
“I’m going to refer you to our urologist,” I tell him. “He’s a great doctor.”
Mr. Burnham nods, looking somewhat relieved. I think I had him at “He’s.”
I tidy up the examining room after Mr. Burnham leaves, then go back to the waiting area to retrieve my next patient. As I walk down the hall, I run into Lisa Karabinakis, another physician on Primary Care C, and also probably my best friend at work. Despite how close we’ve gotten since I started working here, I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve socialized outside of work. Actually, I can count on onefinger. Once—we’ve gotten drinks once.
“You look tired,” Lisa notes.
I make a face at her. “Thanks for noticing.”
Lisa has a two-year-old son and has had plenty of bad nights, but she never looks tired. Maybe because her usual look is allowing her long, curly black hair to hang loose around her face and running down her back. It makes her look like she just got out of bed, although in the best possible way. The “just got out of bed” look is aided and abetted by the fact that she’s wearing an outfit that she bought at Forever 21 (her favorite store of all time) that looks exactly like a pair of flannel pajamas. I could never get away with something like that, but somehow, she rocks it.
“We had a late night last night too,” Lisa says. “We went to see the new Hugh Jackman movie. Oh my God,that man is so sexy. I think I’m going to move him up to number two on my list.”
Lisa and her husband each has one of those lists of celebrity men that they’re allowed to cheat with if the opportunity were to somehow arise. Well, at least Lisa has the list. She takes it very seriously, which I understand because I believe that if Hugh Jackman really met Lisa in real life, he might have difficulty turning her down. The list has also included, at one time or another: Ryan Gosling, Colin Firth, Jude Law, Bradley Cooper, Justin Timberlake, Keanu Reeves, and Prince Harry. I’m not entirely clear on the current occupants of the list, although I think she’s gotten rid of some of the British stars, reasoning it’s less likely she’ll randomly run into them.
Despite Lisa’s urging, I don’t have a list like that. I’d never consider being unfaithful to Ben, even for a celebrity guy that I’d never meet in a million years who would never hook up with me anyway.
“You’ve got a treat,” Lisa tells me. “Yourboyfriendis waiting for you out there.”
I frown at her. “Huh?”
She winks at me. “Youknow.”
I stare at her, my tired brain struggling to interpret her clues. Then it hits me. “No...”
“Oh yes.”
“But he’s not scheduled for today,” I say, my voice taking on a whiny edge.
She shrugs. “Well, he’s there. Maybe Barbara added him on.”
Great.
I walk the rest of the way to the waiting area with about as much enthusiasm as Mr. Burnham had earlier. As soon as I reach the waiting area, I find Barbara painting her fingernails at her desk, with the list of patients lying on the table. I can already see that an additional name has been scribbled in Barbara’s handwriting. Even though I’ve told her multiple times not to add on patients without checking with me first.
“Dr. McGill!”
I look up and see seventy-one-year-old Herman Katz hurrying across the waiting room with outstretched arms. Herman Katz is the bane of my existence. During my short stint at the VA, I have had him in my examining room dozens of times. Or maybe it justfeelslike dozens of times. Although I think it actually has been dozens of times. These days, it’s a rare treat when I look at my patient roster anddon’tsee his name on the list.
It makes me feel all the more guilty that I know Mr. Katzlovesme.
“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Dr. McGill,” Mr. Katz says breathlessly.
“No problem.” I shoot Barbara an accusing look, but she’s too busy making stripes on her nails to notice. “Come with me.”
Mr. Katz eagerly follows me down the hall. While it’s not a stretch to imagine Jason Burnham being on the front lines in Iraq, it’s more of a stretch to imagine that Herman Katz was ever a soldier. Granted, that was quite a long time ago—he fought in the Vietnam War. But I’ve met plenty of old guys that I could easily imagine fighting for their country. Mr. Katz is not one of those guys—his short stature, slight build paired with a rotund belly, and large overbite don’t really suggest war hero to me. Neither does the fact that he makes an appointment with me every time he gets so much as a splinter.
I don’t bother to have Mr. Katz change into a gown. Most of his complaints don’t require a gown or even a physical exam at all. The last time I saw Mr. Katz, he wanted my opinion on whether he should go to a jazz festival. (He was worried it might be too loud and harm his ears.)
I load up my patient’s medical record in the computer, even though I know it by heart. Immediately, I see pages and pages of my own notes.
