I made sure to bring Lucifer with me before heading into work that morning.
“Hey thanks for letting me borrowing this,” I said as I handed the graphic novel over to the nocturnist. Nocturnists are the rare and much-sought-after breed of doctor that prefer working only at night for some reason.
“I had to go through it a few times. The plot’s getting complicated,” I said.
“I’m glad you liked it. Lucifer is my favorite series. Everything he does is part of this great plan.”
He’s so enthusiastic, even after being up all night. People like that.
“By the way, your patient died last night. Family was there,” he toned down pointing to a list of desperate scribbled interventions.
“Oh.”
I’m a little surprised. It wasn’t the hospice patient who stopped dialysis. But not too surprised – old age, chemo, and infection don’t mix well, especially when the oncologist tries to talk you out of chemotherapy.
“I’ll bring the next volume in. It’s all part of the plan, haha,” the nocturnist exited with his Grindhouse lunchbox.
-
My pager vibrated my first task of the day: “DEATH CERTIFICATE IN MED RECORDS PLS AND THANK YOU – GWEN.”
“I haven’t seen you around much, Dr. Scott. Not in a very long time actually,” Gwen, the Secretary of Death Certificates lit up as I walked in. She’s another bright person that I enjoy seeing in my quiet world. Her visiting fee is a bit steep though.
“I’m trying to cut down,” was what I tried to mumble as usual as I wiped my nose. But I only got out, “I’m trying….”
“There’s the chart. Just write the cause, or causes – heheh - of death on the post-it, and I’ll type the rest,” she beamed.
“Just the cause of death?” I confirmed.
“Yep, oh and smoking or no?”
“Are we taking reservations?” another clerk joked, “Sounds like a restaurant in here.”
Restaurant of Death? Cafe Corpus? Taco Hell?
“Heh, no, it’s for this new study.”
“She didn’t smoke,” I answered.
-
“Vomit any blood lately?” I turned down the TV volume.
“Not last night. I’m feeling better,” the quadriplegic man with the pepper-and-salt beard looked better.
“That’s great. I was hoping one of those new meds we started would do the trick,” my eyes crinkled behind my surgical mask and running nose.
He can’t feel anything below his neck. Half of his records say it was a “driving accident.” The correct half say “diving accident.” He was demonstrating a shallow dive for a “young lady friend” and slipped into a cervical spine fracture. Head over heels. I hope she was hot. Five decades ago.
“Hey, doc, what’s sarcomydosis?”
“Sarcodo… leiomy … sarcoidosis?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
I explained it, half wondering if I didn’t read his medical history thoroughly enough.
“They mention it on House a lot. I was just wondering.”
I remembered to turn the TV volume back up before I left this time.
-
“Rosy palms,” I observed on an old lady.
“I’ve got chemo hands,” she explained, “Can hardly feel a thing in the fingertips, since the chemo. At least it doesn’t hurt when I get poked. Now my sister, on the other hand….”
Twenty minutes after hearing mostly irrelevant family stories, I slowly get up.
“Thanks for listening. The steroids make me chatty.”
“That’s okay. Steroids can have weird effects on people.”
I needed the rest.
“Is there anything else I can get for you?” I asked another patient, my usual exit question.
“A new me,” he answered after a fruitless and pregnant pause.
-
Last night, I tried winding down with Saw V, the gore opera of horrible choices, until the kids barged in with Superman the Animated Series. I haven’t been able to hug or kiss them or my wife this week due to this cold. Fortunately, they aren’t sick yet, but they overpowered me in my fatigued state with their love kryptonite. Watching JLU/Batman/Superman cartoons with kids in skeleton pajamas is chicken soup for the soul.
“Why would you want to go back,” Luthor yelled (paraphrased from the cartoon) at the indestructible Metallo, “You can’t be hurt, you’ll never get sick, you’ll live forever!”
“Because … I can’t feel anything,” Metallo replied.
“Why’s he so mad?” my baby girl asked from under my arm.
“Because he can’t feel this,” I touched under her chin. “Or this,” my fingers ran up her shoulder as she giggled. “Or this,” I squeezed both kids closer to me in the bed. My boy had no questions and just snuggled closer.
It reminded me of my patients that day and countless others. If they could choose to be invulnerable, immortal, but unable to feel, taste, or smell – would they? Would you?
Or like my dead patient, would you want to live a mortal life enriched by love and hope from your family at your side against all odds even in your final moments?
I suppose it is a good plan that we do not get to choose.
