Текст книги "Dude, Where's my Stethoscope?"

Автор книги: Donovan Gray

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

In October, cold weather terminated our short northern golf season. I put my clubs away reluctantly. “Next year will be awesome,” I told myself.

Come the spring my game picked up right where it had left off. Each outing was a little better than the one before. One evening I arrived at the course with hopes of getting a few holes in before dusk. I was preparing to tee off when a voice behind me said, “Mind if I join you?”

I turned around to see one of my patients.

“Certainly,” I replied.

My drive went 180 yards. His topped 300. I was impressed. We hopped into his cart and zoomed down the fairway. At the end of the first hole my score was six and his was three.

He led off on the second hole with another towering 300-yard blast. As I set my ball on the tee he said, “Would you care for some advice?”

“Sure!” Any tips from a player of his stature could only serve to strengthen my game, right?

“Well, first of all, don’t bend your knees so much. And try to keep your left elbow straight when you make contact with the ball. Also, make sure you keep your head down – you tend to look up to see where the ball went. Another thing I’ve noticed is… .”

I struggled to incorporate his myriad suggestions into my swing. The end result was that by the time darkness fell I couldn’t even hit the ball.

That was three months ago. I’m still trying to unlearn the tips that vaporized my fledgling game that fateful evening. Welcome to the wonderful world of golf. Fore!

Oops!

Yesterday evening I was playing ping-pong with my daughters when the telephone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hi Dr. Gray. This is Trish on unit 4. I know you’re not on call, but Mr. Arcularis just died and you had asked to be notified when that happened.”

“Thanks, Trish. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

I drove to the hospital, retrieved my stethoscope from the locker room and walked over to the ward. Halfway down the hall I met one of our new medical students.

“Zhora, do you know which room my patient who just died is in?”

“Room 10, I think.”

“Thanks.”

I opened the door to room 10 and stepped inside. A dozen teary-eyed people twisted around and stared at me. I didn’t recognize any of them. Someone in a white lab coat was leaning over an inert figure in the bed. As I drew closer I realized it was the on-call physician. He appeared to be in the process of pronouncing a patient dead. A female patient. He looked befuddled when he saw me.

“Oh, I’m sorry Donovan,” he said. “Was she your patient?” Then it hit me. Two people died at the same time, and I’m in the wrong room!

The mourners were practically staring a hole in me. They probably all thought I had arrived to make some sort of earth-shattering announcement. Why else would I be barging in on such an incredibly private moment? I wanted to withdraw unobtrusively, but I knew that if I back-pedalled out the door I’d look like a complete idiot. I therefore strode up to my colleague, cupped my hand to his ear and whispered: “I’m in the wrong room! Act like I’m telling you something important!”

“Ah, yes, I’ll look into that right away!” he blurted. “Absolutely! One hundred percent!” He nodded sagely and stroked his chin a few times for added effect. It was a Razzie-worthy performance.

I mumbled a quick thank you, turned around and scuttled away. How embarrassing!

Cancer

Cancer is greedy. It starts off as a single cell that is different from the rest. It multiplies continuously, with absolute disregard for the inhibitory signals sent to it by neighbouring cells.

As it grows it compresses and invades adjacent structures with impunity. It sends emissaries via the blood vessels and lymphatics to remote locations within the body. Some of them find fertile ground and start new colonies of destruction. The malignancy relentlessly devours nutrients intended for normal cells. In the absence of timely medical intervention and a bit of luck, the host eventually withers and dies. Ironically, when that happens the cancer dies too. Death is the ultimate chemotherapy.

Most people with cancer would be more than willing to strike a deal with their tumour whereby the two would live symbiotically and share all available nutrients. Unfortunately, cancer has no interest in abiding by covenants. Its only desire is to grow. As a result, it grows until it kills the very organism that it needs to survive. Cancer isn’t just greedy; it’s stupid as well.

Recently a friend of mine died of cancer. They won’t be making any feel-good movies about her demise anytime soon. Her death was not poignant and meaningful. It was ugly, protracted and pointless. She suffered tremendously. She fought hard, but as the seasons passed her independence gradually dissolved away.

As each therapeutic regimen failed her hope for a cure diminished, until one day it was gone. She became glassy-eyed and monosyllabic. She stopped eating and drinking. Eventually she lapsed into a coma. Her loyal family kept a grim bedside vigil.

On the morning she died, the emotional dam finally burst. A flood of tears of bitterness, sorrow and relief was released. The healing process began.

Betcha Can’t Eat Just One

Buster is a 55-year-old hypertensive diabetic who brings new meaning to the term non-compliant. He takes his medications randomly, eats tons of junk, thumbs his nose at exercise and smokes a couple of packs a day.

Recently he had a heart attack that was complicated by a mild case of congestive heart failure. I treated him with the usual meds and admitted him to unit 4.

When I did rounds later that evening I found him happily munching away on a jumbo-sized bag of salt and vinegar chips.

“Buster, what are you doing eating chips?” I squawked. “You’re supposed to be on a low-salt diet!”

“Oops, sorry, doc.” He put them away sheepishly.

The next day I returned to see my star patient. To my astonishment he was in the process of finishing off another ginormous bag of chips.

“Buster, didn’t I tell you yesterday to stay away from chips? There’s too much salt in them!”

“Relax, doc,” he replied. “These are barbeque!”

Curious George

Last patient of the day at the office. What final malady awaits me on the other side of this closed door? Right now I’ve got about as much energy as a fading boxer in the clinch, so I’m hoping to close out with a no-brainer like a blood pressure check. I lift the chart out of the rack. To my dismay there are two more files hiding behind it. It’s the three-for-one Family Special. I’ve been had! I open the door and step inside.

Mrs. Fregoli is frowning as she weighs herself. When she steps off the scale it creaks with relief. Six-year-old Rachael is perched on the edge of the examining table. She quickly scans the pockets of my lab coat to ensure I’m not trying to smuggle any needles into the room. Her five-year-old brother George is playing with the framed photograph of my daughters on my desk. I relieve him of his newfound swag and secure it on a high shelf.

“Hi Mrs. Fregoli. How can I help you today?”

“Doctor, I think sometimes my heart goes lub-lub instead of lub-dub.”

“Okay, I’ll have a listen in a minute. And what’s wrong with your children?”

“Oh, they’re fine, but I figured since I was coming in to see you I might as well bring them along for checkups.”

“All right, then.” I turn to her daughter. “Hullo, Rachael. Is it okay if I look at you first?”

“Sure,” she replies gamely.

I’m reaching for the wall-mounted otoscope when I realize George is rifling through one of the drawers of my supplies cabinet. His mother doesn’t appear to be particularly perturbed by this.

“Stay out of those drawers please, George,” I call to him. He races over to the door and starts yanking on the handle.

“No, Georgie,” his mother says. He pulls a face and bunny-hops back to his chair.

Whoa, I bet he’s a real handful.

I resume examining Rachael. I’m squinting down her left ear canal when a loud crash startles us both. George has somehow managed to knock several textbooks off my desk. He flashes us all an impish grin and pirouettes over to the sink.

“Don’t touch that, Georgie,” pleads his mother.

He turns both faucets on full blast and claps his hands in the torrent of water. Everything within a two-foot radius of the sink gets soaked. I turn off the taps, clean up the mess and gently steer him back to his seat. He sits still for a microsecond, then starts rocking from side to side. I return to Rachael’s examination.

A minute later Mrs. Fregoli sighs heavily and says: “Would you believe my little Georgie just got a three-day suspension from kindergarten?”

What’s not to believe?

“Why was he suspended?” I ask politely.

“Supposedly for poor behaviour. They say that instead of listening to his teacher, he just runs all over the place.”

Sort of like he’s doing right now?

George is merrily tearing around the room. He’s pushing the three-wheeled stool I usually sit on. Every so often he bashes it into one of the walls.

BLAM!

“George, honey; please stop that. Like I was saying, doctor . . .”

BLAM!

I separate George from the stool. He stamps his feet and sits on the floor.

“… I don’t know what they’re talking about. He’s never any trouble at home,” she finishes.

“Is this how his teachers say he behaves at school?” I ask, looking up at the flickering overhead lights. George is treating us all to a funky disco strobe light effect by rapidly oscillating the light switch.

“George, dear; please stop that. No doctor, apparently it’s much worse than this. They say at school he’s completely out of control. My husband and I think they must be exaggerating.”

George is seriously overloading my occipital cortex with his pyrotechnic light show. I can smell burnt toast! Before my impending seizure erupts, I pry his moist little fingers off the switch.

“Stop that,” I hiss at him through gritted teeth. He scowls at me and launches into some mutant cross between jumping jacks and burpees.

“They’ve been after me to get him tested for hyperactivity,” his mum volunteers.

“Well, he certainly is exhibiting – ”

“They also think he might have something called ODD, whatever that is,” she continues.

“Oppositional Defiant Disorder,” I explain.

“Huh?”

“ODD is an acronym for Oppositional Defiant Disorder.”

“Whatever. Anyway, they’ve been trying to get our permission to have him tested for ADD as well as this ODD thing, but we told them to forget it.”

George tips over the wastepaper basket.

“Why don’t you want him tested?” I ask.

George is standing on the three-wheeled stool.

“Because there’s nothing wrong with him,” she replies.

Now he’s doing the Macarena on the stool.

“Then why do you think he behaves like this?”

She looks at me like I’m denser than a neutron star.

“Isn’t it obvious?” she asks incredulously.

I shake my head to indicate it’s not.

“He’s just curious!” she explains.

Curious George falls off the stool and lands on his butt.

“Ow, Mommy! That hurt!”

“Oh, my poor baby! Come let Mommy give you a big hug, Georgie!”

I’ll probably get a letter from some flesh-eating personal injury litigation lawyer next week.

Cerumen

Last Sunday afternoon the populace stormed the ramparts and our ER was overrun by an army of bellyaches, chest pain, asthma, migraines, fevers and minor trauma. Every time I turned around the receptionist was in dumping a fresh batch of charts on the desk. Sorry, she’d smile at me apologetically before hurrying back to her battle station. Even though I knew it wasn’t her fault, I was beginning to dislike her anyway. Crappy days make me a tad irrational sometimes.

Four hours into the carnage the triage nurse handed me a chart and asked, “Would you mind seeing him next?”

“Sure,” I replied. “Where is he?”

“In the third cubicle.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Earwax.”

“Earwax?”

“Yep.”

“Geez.”

Allow me to explain. Ever since I was a little kid I’ve had this thing about earwax. Simply put, I don’t like it. I don’t even like my own earwax, let alone someone else’s. The less earwax I see, the better. My other beef with earwax is that as far as acute-care medicine is concerned, impacted earwax is without a doubt the world’s biggest non-emergency, particularly when the department is under siege.

I marched over to cubicle C with an electron cloud of negative thoughts whizzing around my head: Isn’t this supposed to be an emergency department? Did this guy even try to book an office appointment with his family doctor? By the time I got there I had worked myself into quite a lather. I yanked back the partially drawn curtain and unleashed an intimidating glare. The gnomish 80-year-old man sitting on the stretcher blinked back at me in surprise. Then he smiled widely and said: “Hello, doctor! Sorry to be such a bother. I know you’re terribly busy today.” All of a sudden my petulance atomized. It’s hard to be mad at someone who reminds you of your dear old great-grandfather.

“Hi Mr. Magoo. I’m Dr. Gray. How can I help you?”

“I have a lot of, um… .” He pointed to his left ear.

“Earwax?” I offered clairvoyantly.

“Yes, earwax! Do you have time to flush it out for me?”

“No problem, sir. I’ll look after that right away.”

I foraged the department for the appropriate hardware and returned to his cubicle. First I examined his ear with an otoscope to make sure his self-diagnosis was correct. His left ear canal was indeed chock-full of the stuff. It was Earwax Heaven in there – the legendary mother lode. Next I draped a thick towel around his neck and got him to hold a kidney basin under his left ear. I then went to the sink and filled a large, stainless-steel syringe with warm water.

“I’m going to flush your ear out now,” I advised him. “It’ll probably feel a little uncomfortable, but if there’s any sharp pain please let me know right away, okay?” He nodded assent. I squirted a jet of water into his left ear canal. The fluid that drained back out was completely devoid of earwax. As I turned to refill the syringe with water I noticed him stealthily inspecting the contents of the basin. I flushed again. Crystal-clear returns. You could have used the water in the basin for an Evian ad. I motioned for him to pass me the basin so I could empty it into the sink. Before handing it over he peered into it again and sighed.

“No wax,” he said, his voice heavy with disappointment. I felt like I had struck out with the bases loaded. Call me Casey. Some years ago – never mind how long precisely – having little or no money in my purse… .

“Don’t worry sir, we’re not finished yet,” I reassured him hastily as I dumped the water down the drain. I refilled the syringe with fresh water and tried again. This time there were a few specks of wax in the effluent. When he caught sight of them, his eyes widened.

“Look!” he said excitedly. “Look!”

“What?”

“Wax!”

“That’s nice.”

I repositioned the basin under his ear and flushed one more time. A brownish glob shot out of his ear canal. It looked big enough to be a vital organ.

“Look! Look!” he said, waving the basin around a couple of millimetres away from my nose. Some of the fluid sloshed out onto my lab coat. “A chunk! A chunk!” He was practically yodeling. I hazarded a glance. A huge, turd-like piece of earwax was half-submerged in the now-sludgy water. “I can hear!” he shouted. He deposited the basin on the counter, doffed the towel and shook my hand. “Thank you, doctor!” And with that, he was gone; one helluva satisfied customer. I sat on the stretcher with the intention of taking a 20-second Zen break before rejoining the fray and had an unexpected Damascene conversion. That took all of what, three minutes? How often are we modern-day physicians presented with the opportunity to make a patient that happy with such a quick, inexpensive, low-tech procedure?

So now I try really hard not to kvetch too much whenever someone presents to my ER requesting ear syringing. But I do have to confess – I’m still not that crazy about earwax.

For Better or Worse

I have a real love/hate relationship with my job. Some days I think being a doctor is the best job in the world. Why? Easy:

• It allows me to help people

• It’s exciting

• It’s intellectually stimulating

• It pays well

Other days I’m convinced practicing medicine is without a doubt the worst job ever. Why? Once again, easy:

• It’s stressful

• It invades my personal life

• It burdens me with an absurd amount of responsibility

• It exposes me to a never-ending stream of demands from the public

Most days I’d never consider doing anything but medicine for a living, but there have certainly been times I’ve sworn I’d sooner dive head-first into a wood chipper than work one more shift in the ER.

One day recently my feelings regarding medicine went from one extreme to the other within a span of 30 minutes. Here’s how it happened.

As is often the case on Wednesday mornings, by 10:30 the ER was completely gridlocked. When a cubicle finally became available, the nursing supervisor went out to get my next patient. To my dismay, she returned with Blair Neanderthal.

Blair is the president of our local Society for the Advancement of Alehouse Brawling. His abrasive personality is legendary. Unfortunately for me, this knuckle-dragging troglodyte also happens to be my patient. I hadn’t seen him in more than a year, which made me wonder if he hadn’t just completed yet another “timeout” in the slammer.

I reviewed the triage nurse’s note. “Dental infection.” Seemed fairly straightforward. I stepped into his cubicle and just about bounced off the force field of hostility crackling around him.

“I’ve been waiting for over an hour!” he barked.

“Sorry, Mr. Neanderthal, it’s been super-busy this morning. How can I help you?”

“I’ll tell you how you can help me! You can fix these!” He peeled back his chapped lips to give me a terrifying close-up of his furry, yellow teeth. I cringed.

“I agree – your teeth look pretty awful. Have you been to the dentist?”

“Dentist? Dentist? Don’t talk to me about the dentist!” he roared. “He wants to charge me 70 bucks for each tooth he pulls! 70 bucks! Do I look like I’m made of money?!”

“Well, I can’t take your teeth out, but what I can do is give you a prescription for some antibiotics and painkillers. That should help settle things down until you get a chance to work something out with your dentist.”

“Antibiotics! All you goddamned doctors ever do is prescribe antibiotics! Didn’t you hear me? I want these teeth out now!”

“I think you’d better calm down, Mr. Neanderthal. I’m a doctor, not a dentist. How am I supposed to remove your teeth?”

“Don’t you know anything? My ex-wife had a cousin with teeth like mine! He got a note from his doctor saying it was an emergency and they took them out for free!”

“Do you know the name of the dental office that did the extractions? Perhaps we can give them a call.”

“I don’t know! Some clinic in the city!”

“I’ve never heard of that sort of arrangement before, but we can certainly look into it. Did you mention any of this to your dentist?”

“Yeah!”

“What did he say?”

“He said to ask you! How come you don’t know about it?”

“I – ”

“You’re the worst doctor I’ve ever had! I don’t know how you ever got a license! If you don’t get my teeth pulled for free right now, I’m going to report you to the College of Physicians and Surgeons!”

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10…  .

“Mr. Neanderthal, I think it’s time you found yourself another family doctor.”

He jumped off the stretcher and lunged at me. For a second I thought he was going to take a swing.

“Fine! You’ll be hearing from the College as well as my lawyer!” He swept by me and stormed out of the department, hurling obscenities over his shoulder. I leaned against the wall and shook my head. Why on God’s green earth do I keep doing this crappy job? I’m clown-hammering myself into oblivion.

Half an hour later I was wrapping up with another patient when my beeper went off. I dialled switchboard.

“Hi, this is Dr. Gray.”

“Hi Dr. Gray,” the operator whispered. “Listen, there’s a guy out here at the front desk who says he wants to talk to you.”

“Just make out a chart and we’ll get to him eventually.”

“No, he says he’s not sick or anything; he just wants to talk to you for a minute.”

“This guy wouldn’t happen to be Blair Neanderthal, would he?” The last thing I needed was another round of Sturm und Drang.

“No, it’s not him, thank God.”

“Okay, send him in.”

In stalked a rough-looking guy in his late 40s. He was wearing a baseball cap, a bomber jacket, black cords and biker boots. His pockmarked face looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. He got right up in my grill and said, “Are you Dr. Gray?”

Is this the part where I get shanked?

“Yes,” I replied.

He grabbed my right hand and started pumping it up and down enthusiastically.

“I just wanted to thank you for saving my life two months ago! All the docs down south said I would’ve been a goner if it hadn’t been for you! Thanks!”

Memories flooded back. This fellow had suffered a heart attack and developed a horrendous case of cardiac electrical storm. The doctor on call had paged me stat and we worked on him together for several hours. He ended up requiring more than a dozen defibrillations, RSI with post-intubation paralysis and ventilation, thrombolytics, blood thinners, amiodarone, magnesium, epinephrine, dopamine, beta-blockers… . He had literally been a one-man Advanced Cardiac Life Support course. It had taken all of our combined knowledge to rescue him. When we finally got him stabilized we had him flown down to a cardiac ICU in southern Ontario via Medevac. And now here he was, alive and well and shaking my hand like there was no tomorrow.

I smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

“You’re very welcome, sir,” I replied.

And thank you for reminding me why medicine is the best job in the world!

Prima Donna

Quarter to one in the morning. The last outpatient just left the department. My charts are in order. I’m all grokked out. It’s time to go home to bed. As I pull on my coat the telephone at switchboard starts ringing. Nine rings later, no one’s answered it. That’s strange. I go out to investigate and discover there’s nobody staffing the switchboard desk. Now that’s downright weird – the operator isn’t usually more than a few steps away from her phones, and whenever she has to leave the area she always gets someone to cover for her. Maybe she got caught short and had to run to the washroom. Sometimes you’re summoned to the throne most ricky-tick. The phone is still ringing. What if it’s an emergency? I trot over to the desk and pick it up.

“Hello?”

“How busy is the emergency department now?” a nasal female voice demands.

Whoa. Think fast, boyo. You don’t want to lie, but if you say it’s not busy she’ll proclaim she’s coming in to have her stuffy nose looked at.

“If you have an urgent medical problem or an emergency you’ll be seen.”

Okay, not that smooth, but acceptable.

“The last time I was there I had to wait 45 minutes before I was finally seen!”

45 minutes? Really? Most other hospitals measure their ER wait times in hours. Were you hoping to beat the rush by showing up at one in the morning?

“I see,” I reply blandly, hoping she doesn’t recognize my voice.

I guess that response isn’t sympathetic enough, because now she’s going Medusa on me.

“I want to speak to someone in the emergency department right now!”

Lady, I am the emergency department.     

“Hold the line, please,” I instruct.

I put her on hold and telephone one of the nurses on the medical floor down the hall.

“If you happen to see the switchboard operator, could you please tell her she has a call on line one? Thanks.”

The blinking red light on the console tells me our diva is still on hold. Good. I zip up my coat and leave. I’m grinning like a madman.

Running the Supermarket Gauntlet

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for another thrilling episode of…  Supermarket Gauntlet! Watch as our hapless rural physician tries to shop for groceries anonymously! Will he succeed? Of course not! But it’s fun to watch him try! Take it away, Dr. Gray!”

Okay, hang on a minute. I don’t want to come across as being some sort of Grinchy recluse. Although a number of you may be skeptical (and I’m sure that last story didn’t help much), please allow me to reassure you that I am not some antisocial curmudgeon freshly sprung from the pages of a Dickens anthology. I honestly do enjoy meeting and greeting people as much as the next guy; it’s just that I don’t always feel like having a dozen conversations every time I go pick up some eggs. Whenever I want a less communal shopping experience I generally try to go early in the morning – our local supermarket tends to be less congested then. That approach doesn’t always work, though. Take today, for example… .

Morning inpatient rounds ended 15 minutes earlier than usual, so I decided to do a quick supermarket foray to pick up a few odds and ends. When I arrived I was pleased to see the parking lot was only about one-quarter full. I pulled into a stall and scanned the area. The coast looked clear. I disembarked, ducked my head down low and started speed-walking towards the main entrance. I hadn’t gotten more than five paces when a loud voice behind me boomed: “Hey, there’s Dr. Gray! Hi Dr. Gray!”

Aargh! Parking lot ambush!

I turned around. It was one of my patients, of course. Like Savoir Faire, they’re everywhere.

“Hi Mr. Snodgrass.”

“Gotta love this weather, eh doc?”

“Absolutely.”

“How’s your family doing?”

“They’re well, thanks. And yours?”

“Great! Say, I’m running low on my little white pills and I was wondering if I could get a refill.”

“Your little white pills?”

“Yeah, you know the ones, they’re about this big… .”

“What do you take them for?”

“Geez, that’s a good question! I think they’re for my cholesterol. No wait, they might be for my blood pressure! Or gout maybe? What colour are gout pills?”

To my credit, I didn’t roll my eyes. I hardly ever do that anymore.

“How about you check the name on the bottle when you get home and leave a message for me at my office? Then I’ll be able to fax a refill to the drugstore for you.”

“Sounds like a plan, doc! You have yourself a great day!”

I bolted inside. As I passed the tiny drugstore near the entrance, Fred the pharmacist waved at me.

“Hi Dr. Gray!”

“Hi Fred, how’s it going?”

He motioned me over and dropped his voice to a clandestine whisper.

“Hate to bother you, but would you happen to recall if you told Mr. Johnson you’d phone in a Viagra refill for him yesterday?”

“Oh yes, I did, but then things kind of went sideways on me and I forgot. He can have eight 100 mg tabs with three repeats.”

“Thanks!”

“No problem!”

I went to get a shopping cart. One of the women from the hospital auxiliary was sitting at a makeshift desk strategically located right beside the trolley corral.

“Hi Dr. Gray! Care to buy a raffle ticket to support the Disease-of-the-Week Foundation?”

“I’d love to!”

“They’re five dollars each.”

“I’ll take two, please.”

I paid my trolley tax, selected one that didn’t squeak too much and wheeled it into the store.

Aside from a few nods and waves, my trip down the produce aisle was completely uneventful. Next up was bread. After scoping out some potential candidates, I leaned over and began covertly squeezing loaves. I had a firm grip on a promising loaf of Wonder Bread when I got the distinct feeling someone was watching me. I looked over my shoulder guiltily, expecting to encounter a frowning store clerk. Fortunately it was just some flaxen-haired, gappy-toothed kid.

“Hey! Dr. Gray! Remember me?”

“Er, no. What’s your name again?”

“Ralph! You put a cast on my leg when I broke it last summer.”

“Hi, Ralph. How’s your leg feeling?”

“Great! I can rollerblade and skateboard and everything now!”

“Awesome.”

“So, what are you doing?”

“Shopping.”

“How come you’re not at work?”

How come you’re not at school?

“My office hasn’t started yet.”

“Oh. What’s the matter with that loaf of bread?”

“Nothing.”

“So then why were you squeezing it just now?”

“I, uh… .”

“Come along, Ralphie,” his mother called from the far end of the aisle. Leave the peculiar, bread-squeezing doctor alone… .

Cereals:

“Hi Dr. Gray!”

“Hi Mrs. MacLeod!”

“Did you get the results of that ultrasound I went for last week?”

“Not yet.”

“How about my diabetes test?”

“Um… .”

“My cholesterol test?”

“I don’t remember.”

“My – ”

“Usually no news is good news, but if you want you can call my office and they’ll look up the results for you.”

“Okay, thanks!”

Eggs:

“How’s it going, Dr. Gray?”

“Just great, Mr. Polokov. And you?”

“I’m fine. Will your office be open this afternoon? I need to get some travel grants signed.”

“We’ll be open until about six o’clock.”

“I also need some Workers’ Compensation forms filled out. How long do you think it’ll take you to do them? We’re going on a cruise next week and I’d really like to mail them in before we leave.”

“If you speak to my receptionist, she’ll let you know.”

“Thanks!”

Toiletries:

I needed some bathroom supplies, but the recently-jettisoned Blair Neanderthal was parked in the middle of the aisle by the "My First Toothbrush" display. Oh, well, who needs soap, anyway? It’s so overrated. Detour, detour… .

Meat:

“Hey, doc! Thanks for stitching up my finger last week.”

“My pleasure.”

“It’s almost healed already! Do you want to see it?”

“No, that’s okay.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Actually, would you mind taking a quick peek at it just to make sure it’s not getting infected?”

“Okay, let’s see… . Uh-huh… . Looks fine to me.”

“Thanks! Say, can you write me a note to give the wife saying I won’t be able to do the dishes for the next couple of weeks? Har-har!”

Dairy:

My last stop before checkout was the dairy section. I was reviewing the expiry date on a carton of Lactaid when someone tapped me on the shoulder.

“Dr. Gray, am I ever glad to see you!”

Oh no! The Kiss of Death!

“Hi Mr. Runciter. What’s wrong?”

“I’ve been having one heck of a time with my bladder lately!”

“I see… .”

He started pulling up his shirt.

“I think maybe it has to do with my prostate.”

“Uh-huh… .”

He began fumbling with his belt buckle.

“The last time I got this you ended up having to send me to the urologist.”