Page 75 of The Devil You Know
Be good? I’m always good. Well, except for that one time.
Getting the plant into my car is no easy task. It’s much too tall to fit on the seat, so I end up putting it on the floor, where it still doesn’t really fit. The position ofthe pot is extremely precarious, but I’ll just have to drive carefully. I recognize that my car will be just one short stop away from having dirt all over the floor, but that’s okay—maybe it will block out the faint odor of urine that still clings to the back seat.
After the plant is safely packed away in the car, I turn to watch Ryan walking to his car. I follow his steps, waiting for his body to jerk or for him to trip over his own feet. He does neither. He walks with certain, steady steps through the melting snow.
I’d think his diagnosis was a mistake if I hadn’t seen it myself.
I get in the car and drive as carefully as I can to Mila’s preschool. At every red light, I hold my breath and glance nervously at the plant. But by some miracle, I make it to the preschool with the plant still upright. It took about twice as long as usual, but I made it.
I grab the plant from the floor of the front seat and yank it out of the car with me. I make my way carefully across the parking lot toward my daughter’s preschool. I’m eternally grateful when another parent is coming out as I’m coming in and can hold the door for me.
“Mila!” I call out. “I bought a present for you…”
Chapter 28
“Mr. Turner,” I say. “Your cholesterol is even worse than last time.”
Fred Turner frowns at me and scratches at his large belly. Mr. Turner has something called “central obesity,” which is a fancy way of saying that most of his fat is in the torso. It puts him at higher risk for heart disease, as does his high blood pressure and horrendous cholesterol. Mr. Turner is basically a walking coronary.
“Did you do what we talked about last time?” I ask him. “You know, about eating less red meat and more vegetables? And using whole grain bread instead of white bread?”
Mr. Turner nods slowly. “Yeah. Well, sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“See, I thought I was eating more whole grains,” he explains. “Like, I was buying a lot of whole grain bread instead of white bread because I know white bread is bad. But then I realized I was eating white bread in other forms by accident.”
I raise my eyebrows at him. “Byaccident?”
“Well, you didn’t explain it to me right.” He frowns at me accusingly. “You never told me that there were forms of white bread in donuts, pizza, lasagna…”
I stare at him. “Those foods are unhealthy for reasons other than their bread content.”
He doesn’t seem to be getting it.
I make Mr. Turner an appointment with the nutritionist, thinking maybe she’ll have better luck than I did. But also, I start him on a medication for his cholesterol. Because if you don’t understand why a donut is unhealthy, I think you might be a lost cause.
Mr. Turner is my last patient of the day, so I’ve got time to catch up on labs and phone calls. The first thing that pops up is the report from Herman Katz’s carotid ultrasound. His right carotid is about fifty percent blocked and the left symptomatic side clocks in at ninety percent. Iknewit!
I look up Mr. Katz’s phone number under the demographics tab. He answers after only two rings with a breathless, “Hello?”
“Hello, Mr. Katz,” I say. “This is Dr. McGill from the VA Hospital.”
“Dr. McGill!” He sounds so obscenely thrilled to hear from me that you’d think he’d received a call from… well, I don’t know exactly who would impress Mr. Katz. Dwight D. Eisenhower? Ronald Reagan? Madonna? Someone important, anyway. “It’s so good to hear from you.”
“Right.” What do I say to that? “Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I got the results back from your carotid ultrasound—you know, that test they did on your neck?”
“Oh yes.” Mr. Katz’s voice becomes tense. “Do I have cancer, Doctor?”
“Cancer?” Christ, he’s single-minded. “No, you don’t. But you do have a blocked artery in your neck.”
“Oh.” He seems completely befuddled, as if such a thing had never even occurred to him. Even though I explained it to him prior to the test. “What does that mean?”
“Well,” I say, “it might have caused that symptom you had where you couldn’t see out of one eye. And if you don’t treat it, you might have a stroke.”
“Astroke?” Mr. Katz sounds really panicked now. He might have dealt with cancer better—at least he was expecting that. “So what do I do to treat it?”
“I’m going to put in a consult for you,” I tell him, “with a vascular surgeon named Dr. Reilly. He’s excellent. He’s going to take good care of you, Mr. Katz.”
