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I was away at college, fulfilling my general education requirement.
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She taught me how to read, poetry specifically. V, my little sister, claims she’s never taught me anything. It wasn’t the title of plastic surgeon that I wanted. I needed to fill the space in my thoughts that my regular patients were supposed to more vividly occupy. Beyond the world of family care, I’d started a plastic surgery outfit in Hollywood: number one, for the money, number two, for the money, but also because being a family doc wasn’t enough. That they are not the owners of bachelor’s degrees and sensible two-story homes and Nissans and inflatable bouncy-houses or whatever people with children drive around and do.
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That they are the kind of women I’d risk my career to sleep with or bad, crazy, hallucinating artists. Here, at this place of work, I’m a solid, boring family doc, which isn’t a bad thing at all except for the fact that I find myself constantly having to imagine that my patients are more attractive and thought-provoking than they actually are. “I’m good more than good, in fact.” Yes, I’m good here, I guess, more or less. “You can always go to County, deal with the real thing,” the nurse tells me. Definitely no more WebMD self-diagnosis: I ban him from the website for life and declare “If thou be the Christ, arise,” and send him on his way. The nurse and I have the time and leisure for an extended Q & A with the young man, after which I ascertain that he will benefit more from meditation, maybe some sort of trendy mantra, than from open heart surgery. I’m surprised this place is still financially solvent, to tell the truth. It’s slow, for one, because I now work in an exurb well outside of Los Angeles and few here have the money for our private facility. rounds in South Los Angeles and was introduced to the American Fourth World. Back when I was in residency I did real E.R. But we’re a private hospital so everything is expensive, which means everything is emergent, even when it doesn’t actually exist. This is not the ER, by the way, it’s Adult Medicine, and I’m a family physician, not an Emergency Room surgeon. The nurse and I observe him laid out on the stretcher he’s somehow procured and placed himself upon. He seems on the verge of something explosive. But he’s certain he’s having a heart attack. The new nurse takes his vitals, runs an EKG. It’s all of 8AM and he is in the grip of acute cardiac arrest, by the way. Takes one nerd to know another, and I have him pegged. He is six feet tall, one hundred seventy-five pounds, fit-looking, not a tobacco mouth, claims no history of cocaine use and I believe him because he’s too nerdy and terrified to do coke. The young man enters alone and registers himself, voice muffled and catching with anxiety, body rigid with fear, breath coming in short tight bursts.