Page 82 of The Devil You Know
“Well, that’s great,” I say.
He nods. “Also, she’s got the two of us going to the gym every day. And she cooks every night—we’re on an all-Vegan, gluten-free diet.”
“Oh, that sounds…” Disgusting. “Wonderful.”
“Also, I got rid of my motorcycle,” he says. “April got me a bicycle and I ride everywhere on it. It’s great exercise.”
“Wow.”
“We’re basically ridding our bodies entirely of toxins,” he explains. “Like, instead of coffee in the morning, we have a mixture of wheat grass, kale, broccoli, lemon juice, and green tea.”
“Oh.” I can’t even pretend to find that appetizing.
“Also,” he adds, “April threw out our television.”
I nearly gasp this time. It sounds too horrible for words. “That’s great.”
“Yeah,” he says, although he doesn’t sound as convinced this time. He thinks for a second, “Dr. McGill, do you ever call family members of patients?”
I nod. “Sometimes. Who would you like me to call, Mr. Stoughton?”
He takes a deep breath. “April. Maybe you could tell her that it’s okay for me to have a cheeseburger sometimes. And that it’s okay to have a cup of coffee.”
“I could do that,” I say, even though I’d rather lick the floor. This April sounds like a tough cookie.
“Also,” he says, “maybe you could tell her it’s okay for me to have some coke? I mean, just a tiny bit.”
I almost laugh. What kind of person asks theirdoctorto tell their girlfriend that it’s okay to snort coke? I mustreally seem like a pushover. “I don’t think April will go for that.”
“No,” he agrees. “Probably not.”
After I finish up with Matthew Stoughton, I go onto the computer and look up the record on Herman Katz. He’s still hospitalized, thanks to a bout of right lower lobe pneumonia. On top of everything else, his swallowing has been affected by the stroke and he’s been aspirating. I see a note from interventional radiology, who recently inserted a feeding tube into his belly. I close my eyes and remember Mr. Katz showing me his “I’m a little teapot” position to explain when he felt pain. A guy like that is not going to do well with a feeding tube.
And part of me still blames Ryan. Despite what he claimed. I scoured the operative report he dictated for any signs that something went amiss, but I’m not sure what I’d find there.Then while the incision was being closed with #3-0 Vicryl, my hand jerked wildly and caused a massive stroke.
“Dr. McGill!”
I look up and see Dr. Kirschstein at the door to the examining room. He’s hovering at the door to the examining room, wearing his white coat. His eyes are unreadable thanks to his eyebangs.
“Hi, Dr. Kirschstein,” I say.
“Dr. McGill,” he says. “I’d like to share a word with you.”
“Sure.”
“We’re having a guest speaker next week at Grand Rounds,” Dr. Kirschstein tells me. “So she’ll require extra assistance on your part.”
“Of course,” I say. In my head, I’m wondering how I can shaft this grand rounds responsibility onto someone else in the near future. “Who’s the speaker?”
Dr. Kirschstein beams at me. “She’s an expert on hospice care. And with our aging veteran population, I think this is an incredibly important point of interest.”
“Yeah, that’s true.” Hospice is an incredibly underutilized service, in my opinion. Many elderly people spend more on healthcare in their last six months of life than in the entire rest of their life. And for what? To die in a hospital? I want to die at home. Surrounded by people who love me. Possibly while eating an ice cream sundae. “Who is the speaker?”
“Her name is Dr. Alyssa Morgan.” Dr. Kirschstein raises his eyebangs at the look of absolute horror on my face. “Oh, do you know her?”
_____
Dr. Alyssa Morgan.
