Page 81 of The Devil You Know
“The hell you weren’t!” Red rushes into Ryan’s cheeks—damn, he’s pissed off. “You thought that because I’m sick, I shouldn’t be operating anymore. That’s what you were thinking.”
I want to tell him he’s wrong, but he’ll know I’m lying. That’s exactly what I was thinking.
He shakes his head at me. “If I thought my… condition was any danger to my patients, I’d stop operating. Immediately. I mean, I will… when…”
He seems to deflate somewhat. He sinks down onto the bed, and stares down at his hands. I sit down next to him, but I’m not sure what to say. I can’t tell him everything is going to be okay. It isn’t. It definitely isn’t, and he knows it.
“Jane, you have to believe me,” he says, “if I ever feel like I can’t operate anymore at a hundred percent, I’ll stop. I would never, ever jeopardize my patients.”
“I believe you,” I murmur.
“They’ve got plenty of administrative and research work for me to do,” he says. “Don’t worry.”
We had a conversation just like this when I first found out that he had Huntington’s. He reassured me that he’d do paperwork when he couldn’t operate. And after that…
I’ve got a gun locked away in my desk drawer at home.
I don’t want to think about that. I don’t know if he was serious or not, and he’s got a lot of time left before he reaches that point. I’m sure he’ll change his mind. I’m encouraged that he doesn’t say it now.
Ryan lets out a long sigh. “It sucks about Mr. Katz.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
We sit there for a minute until Ryan’s phone goes off. I notice that his hand jerks slightly as he attempts to pull itout of his pocket, but I don’t say anything. I’m sure he already knows what I’m thinking.
Chapter 31
The last name on my list of patients for the morning is Matthew Stoughton. It doesn’t immediately ring a bell, but right off, I assume that he’s on the younger side based on his first name. There are exceptions, but old men are usually not named Matthew. They’re more likely to be named Robert, Richard, or Charles.
Given a patient’s first name, I can often guess their age within a decade. Especially with women, since female names tend to be trendier (although I haven’t gotten to see many female patients since I’ve been at the VA). For example, if you meet a woman named Dorothy, Helen, or Ruth, she is definitely older than the hills. You are never going to see a twenty-year-old woman named Mildred or Agnes. That just doesn’t happen.
Or if the woman’s name is Linda, Donna, or Nancy, she’s probably middle-aged. A woman named Jessica, Nicole, or Melissa is probably more likely to be around my age. And if you meet a girl named Sophia, Emma, or Isabella, she’s probably in Leah’s preschool. It’s harderwith men, but you can bet a guy named Matthew, Justin, or Brandon will be an OEF/OIF vet, while a Frank or a Walter probably fought in the Korean War or even maybe World War II.
So when you give your kid a trendy name, beware. When you name your daughter Madison in 2010, remember that her name will be the Mildred of 2090.
When I glance through his chart, I discover I’m right about Matthew Stoughton. He’s thirty-three years old and no longer active duty, which is a good thing because at our last visit, I discovered that he was snorting coke. He didn’t come to me because he was snorting coke though. He came to me because he was having chest pain. Probably because he was snorting coke. I gave him a whole speech about it last time he was here.
Of course, Mr. Stoughton’s real problem is probably his PTSD. He’s had a hard time adjusting since he got home from Iraq, and he’s struggled with outbursts of anger and bad nightmares. Aside from the coke, he drinks and God knows what else. He’s enrolled in an outpatient support group for vets with PTSD but he rarely shows up for the groups—same deal with his one-on-one appointments. Every time I’ve seen him, he’s had dark circles under his haunted eyes.
But today he looks great. He flashes me a big smile when I pick him up in the waiting room. He’s even put back on a little weight, so that I can better identify thetattoos wrapping around his arms: dog tags, an American flag, and two rifles intertwined.
“How are you doing?” I ask him once we’re in the examining room.
“I’m good!” Mr. Stoughton’s eyes are bright. “My chest pain is gone!”
“That’s wonderful!” I exclaim. “Why do you think that is?”
“Probably because I quit snorting coke,” he says, like I’m an idiot.
“Right. That would do it.” I smile at him. “Did our visit motivate you?”
I’m hoping he’ll tell me that the talk I gave him at our last appointment was what turned his whole life around. But instead, he laughs. “Well, a little. But really, it was April.”
April—my age or younger. See how good I am at this game?
“Who’s April?”
“My girlfriend,” Mr. Stoughton says. “Let me tell you, she lays down theline. I mean, not literally, obviously—she won’t let me do coke at all.”
