Page 38 of RomeAntically Challenged
Three nurses from Lynn’s Vietnamese-inspired cooking group had introduced themselves. One even told her about a relative’s house coming up for rent next month. It was a sprawling two-bedroom with breathtaking views of the ocean and in walking distance to downtown. She was certain, on a photojournalist’s salary, Emmitt could easily afford it.
But even if the place came through, that still left a few weeks of cohabitation—which was not going to happen. Annie knew she couldn’t do many more ten-hour shifts on two hours’ sleep before she hit a wall. Just as she knew she couldn’t do many more half-naked, bump-in-the-night encounters before someone did something they regretted.
With new resolve, Annie picked up a yellow folder from the wall rack and walked in to meet her next patient, Leslie Jacobs.
“Hi, Leslie,” she said, studying the chart. “I’m Annie Walsh. I’ll be helping out Dr. Yates today.”
“It’s Les, and Dr. Yates is an idiot,” Leslie said, his voice scratchy from a lifetime of smoking. In fact, everything about him was scratchy.
Mr. Jacobs was tall and wiry with squinty eyes and appeared as cuddly as a cactus. His skin was flaky and sallow from chemo, and his clothes draped from his frame as if his body were nothing more than a hanger. And Annie’s heart gave a hard tug.
Where most people would see a gruff old man, Annie saw a lonely and scared patient who needed someone to hold his hand. Luckily for Les, Annie specialized in hand-holding.
Even when she was well past hand-holding age, Annie still held her parents’ hands while they walked to and from school, around the market, or even at home. In elementary school, her classmates teased her about it, but Annie was more afraid of letting go than she was of being called a baby.
Betty Everett got it wrong when she sang, “If you want to know if he loves you so, it’s in his kiss.” For Annie, it’s in the way he holds hands.
Like kisses, there was an entire language built into the art of hand-holding. Sadly, most people took for granted just how intimate and expressive the gesture could be, and what had once been the greatest display of love and affection had, in modern times, been dismissed.
But since hand-holding wasn’t a medical board–approved method of provider-patient interaction, Annie sat down on the chair and wheeled herself right into Les’s personal space, then gentled her voice. “Dr. Yates is one of the best oncologists in the state.”
“I’ve got hemorrhoids older than him.”
“He has successfully treated more patients than years you’ve been alive.” She clicked her pen and opened his chart. “Shall I add hemorrhoids to the issues we need to discuss today?”
One bushy brow lifted in reprimand, but then his lips slowly tilted up at the corners, transforming his face. “You’re plucky. I want you to be my new doctor.”
Annie grinned. “From you, I take that as a high compliment. Unfortunately, I’m not an oncologist or a surgeon.”
“Doesn’t bother me since I’m not having the surgery.”
“But it’s already scheduled. The operating room is reserved. The anesthesiologist is booked. I thought that was why you were here today. To discuss the removal of your—” She scanned the chart. “Ovaries?” She paused, reread the prognosis again, then looked up. “There must be some mistake.”
“This is what I’ve been telling you. That doc wanted me to get a physical before the surgery. Blood tests, MRI, the whole shebang,” he said. “I have more appointments than days in the week and usually see him more than I see my grandkid. But I agreed to the surgery. Why? Because he’s the doctor. So there I am, missing out on my weekly bocce ball game, thinking the doctor’s going to give me a simple checkup, make sure I’m not too sick to go under the knife.
“Isn’t that a joke. Gotta be sick to get any real help but not too sick that they won’t help you,” he went on. “But there I am waiting for my checkup. Next thing I know the nurse hands me a pink gown and tells me to strip. Then I see these stirrups for my feet and I knew she wasn’t going to ask me to cough. Damn idiot sent me to the lady doctor!”
Oh boy.
Annie turned her attention to the rest of his chart, trying to make sense of what was happening.
Leslie F Jacobs. Five eleven, 173 pounds at 68 years of
age. Suffers from heart disease, high blood pressure,
and—talk about typos—ovarian cancer.
She closed the file and rested it on the counter. “Just give me a moment and let me find out what’s going on. I’m sure it’s a computer glitch.”
“What’s going on is, I’m leaving.” Les slipped one foot into a shoe and started lacing. “I don’t really know a whole lot about ovaries, except they make women nuts, but if I had some, I wouldn’t want Dr. Yates anywhere near them.” He laced up the other shoe and stood. “Just like he isn’t messing with my boys.”
“This is most likely a clerical mistake,” Annie said, but Les wasn’t listening. He was leaving. “I’m new and still learning the system and”—anda floater was the exact wrong person to handle this appointment. Les needed someone who was familiar with his diagnosis and his medical history—“and if you could have a seat, I’ll call Dr. Yates and he can fix this in a jiffy.”
Les gave a stern head shake. “Lady, if he can’t tell by looking at me that I don’t have ovaries, then this can’t be fixed.”
“Don’t give up on Dr. Yates,” Annie urged, walking behind him. “I’ve seen you in the chemo center. I know this is a scary time, even without the mix-up. You’re clearly upset and need answers.” Annie placed her arm on his shoulders. “Let me help you get them.”
Les stopped at her touch. After a moment he slowly turned to face her, and Annie’s chest ached for the man.
