Requests for transfer of records are coming in response to the closing practice letters.
These bring dueling emotions: pleasure in the knowledge the individual is planning for continued care AND the sting of rejection.
Intellectually, I know the second makes no sense. I am the one who is leaving them and the practice.
Still....
Acutely blocked coronary
Digitally exposed,
Finds groove
Halting.
Impeded journey
Keep limping, moving nowhere.
Obstructed, pulse?
Quick radiating
Sharp twangs
Underscore ventricular
Weeping
‘Xalting your zeal.
***I seem to have taken Dr. Charles poetry challenge to heart. This is my third poem, but I won’t be submitting this one. It is for my mother.
Peaceful slumber is broken
Quarter after midnight,
Report that multiple crash
Survivors are being
Transported here and elsewhere.
Up, leaving behind the
Virtual for the real world
Waiting, coffee in hand,
Xpecting the worst injuries.
Your eyes watch the doors open,
Zooming, your focus sharpens.
***Another poem attempt for Dr. Charles.
“Is this the Doctor’s Building?”
“No, Ma’am. This is an office in the Doctor’s Building. What doctor are you looking for?”
“I don’t know. I’m pregnant and was given this number when I called 411 looking for a doctor.”
I finished a post-abdominoplasty check, drains and sutures removed. I then began to tell her how to slowly increase her activities and exercise.
She smiled, “I have to tell you. I got back on the Wii just to walk yesterday. It told me I had lost weight too quickly. I needed to slow down.”
“I see you remembered to bring the office forms I mailed you.”
“Yes, but I need to fill them out,” he replies.
I hand him a pen and clipboard, thinking “you had over a week to fill them out at home.”
Fifteen minutes later, I smile as he hands me the filled-in forms.
A warm, friendly voicemail: “Dr. Bates, I’m CB. Dr. Z sent you a referral letter 5 years ago. I’m now ready to proceed with whatever needs to be done.”
I don’t recall the letter and feel disappointed there's no chart on CB. I just knew I had met her.
“All done, just need a dressing.”
“Can you take a photo? I want to show my friends,” the teen holds out his cell phone.
“Sure, how’s your phone's camera work?” removing my gloves, I reach take the phone. “Do you want to know how many stitches?”
“No, just the pictures. Push this button.”
I look at the Fed Ex guy, “Do you have any idea what you are delivering?”
“Not often.”
“These boxes from Mentor have breast implants in them,” I tell him.
He blushes, “Deliveries to your office will never be the same.”
“Can you remove this scar?”
“No, only change it.” She looks deflated. I ask “What happened?”
“My ex-husband stabbed me,” she quietly says.
“I’m sorry. I can’t remove the scar or it’s history. We’ll give it a new story.”
“How?’’
“A new scar. Let it’s story begin there.”
She smiles.
Crying she says, “Dr. Bates, my right implant has deflated. Help!”
“Don’t panic. It’ll be okay.”
We review the options and risks. Fortunately, her 9 year old implants are covered by the 10 year plan.
“Dr. Bates, can I go bigger this time?”
“Yes, that’s an option.”
Smiling, “Then let’s do it.”
Desires change to her abdomen.
Here for her third consultation in the past two years.
Worried about the drains, the scar, the pain, the recovery time.
“I have two weeks between trips here. Can’t we schedule it then?”
“No, I don’t think so. You’ll need more recovery time.”
“Doc, after surgery will I be able to play the piano?”
I smiled, having fallen for that joke often as a young surgeon.
Older now, I answer “How good are you at it now? You should be just as good.”
We both laugh.
