Getting Real (Getting Some 3)

“She should be taking orders from me.”

And every single year, they bring the same terrible question to the minds of the doctors who supervise them: Dear God, was I this much of an asswipe when I was an intern?

The cold, hard, truthful answer is: Probably. The answer we tell ourselves is: No. I couldn’t have been. The nurses would’ve killed me.

“Stop talking.” I tell the dark-haired, twentysomething, emptyheaded grasshopper in front of me.

I think his name is something like Jamie or Jonathan or Janas.

“First of all, you’re not a doctor yet. Not in this building, not on your own. We’re being nice letting you hang around hoping our knowledge sinks into your thick, high-on-your-own-supply intern skull.”

I walk down the hospital hall as I talk, because I’m busy and I have to set this kid straight before things get out of hand. Jackson shuffles along beside me, dodging orderlies and gurneys.

“Number two, Marisol has been a nurse longer than you’ve been alive. If she tells you there’s a problem with one of your patients and you need to see them—it’s because there’s a fucking problem with one of your patients and you need to see them. Immediately.

“Third, nurses don’t work for you—they work with you. You’re a team. It’s a vital symbiotic relationship in the ecosystem of the emergency department. If they hate you—and make no mistake, they all frigging hate you right now—it will make your job harder than it ever needs to be. Are you getting this?”

“Yes, but—”

Johannesburg is not getting it.

I stop abruptly and look directly into his eyes. “They will kill you. They know a thousand different ways to do it without leaving a trace of evidence behind. They’re probably in the break room planning it right now.”

The gravity of his situation finally registers. He gulps.

“Really?”

I roll my eyes. “No, not really. They will make you cry, though. I’ve seen it happen—and crying is worse.”

“Worse than death?”

“Absolutely.”

“What should I do?” he asks, in a low, hushed, appropriately panicked tone.

“Crumb cake.”

“What?’

I scribble out an address on the pad from my pocket and shove it against his chest. “After we examine Mr. . . .” I grab the chart from the bin on the wall “. . . Wilson. You’re going to go to Polowski’s Bakery and get a crumb cake. Full sheet, the high-end stuff, now is not the time to scrimp. Bring it back to the nurse’s station, with an apology for Marisol. It’s your only hope, padawan.”

He looks at me helplessly. That’s a good start.

“Who?”

Jesus, do they teach kids nothing these days?

I wave his question away. “Just go. After we look at Mr. Wilson.”

I give the door to Exam Room 1 two raps, then breeze in with Jacques the intern trailing behind like a less knowledgeable, less good-looking shadow.

“Good morning, Mr. Wilson, I’m Dr. Daniels.”

Mr. Wilson, a medium-build eighty-year-old man with thick gray hair and a frowning disposition, sits on the table wearing a hospital gown and black shin-high socks. The tear of Velcro rips through the air as Violet removes the blood pressure cuff from his arm.

“156 over 98,” Vi tells me.

High BP, I mentally note as I scan the blood work on his chart.

“What brings you in today?”

I could read the triage notes, but it’s always better to hear it from the patient.

“The wife,” he grumps out, glaring at the petite elderly culprit sitting in the corner chair.

“The wife?”

“That’s right. She nagged me here. Wouldn’t stop until I came in.”

“I see.” I nod. “How’s your health in general?”

“Excellent,” he replies with a surety that only a true bullshitter could pull off.

“The wife” confirms my suspicions when she stands up and announces, “He has atherosclerosis, high cholesterol, diabetes, and glaucoma.”

“But other than that,” Mr. Wilson insists, “healthy as a horse.”

Mrs. Wilson’s eyes swing around to the ceiling.

“Show him your foot, Melvin.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my foot, woman!” Mr. Wilson grouches. “I stubbed my toe a few days ago, Doc, and she’s been on me about it ever since.”

Here’s a fact for you: if one half of a couple drags the other half to the hospital kicking and screaming—especially if the kicker and screamer is an old man? There’s definitely a serious problem happening.

“Well, you’re already here, Melvin,” I say reasonably. “Might as well let me take a look at the foot—if nothing else, the nagging will stop.”

After a moment Melvin nods, still grumpily, but he reaches down to take off his sock. While he does, I offer Mrs. Wilson an apologetic look for the nagging comment, but she seems to understand we’re on the same team.

And then I get a look at the foot.

Hello gan-fucking-grene—long time no see.

I snap on a pair of latex gloves and examine the foot more closely, poking and prodding the damaged flesh. Then I listen to his heart, his lungs, check his eyes for jaundice and his lymph nodes for swelling.