Dude, Where's My Stethoscope?

by Gray, Donovan

  Today my golf game was more frightening than The Exorcist. Anyone following me around with a movie camera would have had an instant horror classic on their hands. Divots the size of meteorites. Drives that dribbled to a halt less than 10 feet away. Missed putts any fetus could have sunk. Bizarre sideways shots that defied all known laws of physics. And let’s not forget those complete whiffs that left me looking like The Incredible Human Pretzel. I was so pitiful, even the blackflies stayed away from me. It didn’t always used to be this way. Believe it or not, I coulda been a contender. This is my sad tale.

  I used to shake my head at golfers and their harebrained marches down the fairway. Who in their right mind would voluntarily spend hours of prime time chasing an irrelevant little dimpled ball all over hell’s half acre? Obsessive nutbars, that’s who. “Get a life!” I’d feel like yelling every time I passed a platoon of fanatics in Bermuda shorts traipsing around a golf course.

  Near the end of my first year in medical school some of my classmates decided they were going to learn how to golf. They invited me to join them. Naturally, I declined. “A group of golfing doctors?” I scoffed. “How cliché can you get? Thanks, but no thanks.” Over the years many more invitations came my way, but I avoided them all like the plague.

  Last summer my sister-in-law and her husband somehow managed to coerce me into playing a round of golf with them. As I prepared to tee off on the first hole I remember thinking, “This is going to be brutal.” It wasn’t. By the end of the game I was golf’s newest convert. I began hanging out at the local driving range. Within a month I was cranking out fairly consistent 200 yard drives. True, they were often directionally challenged, but let’s not quibble over details, okay? I bought a set of clubs and started playing regularly. To my surprise, I wasn’t half bad! My drives, chips, sand work and putts, though rough and unpolished, were respectable enough for a newb. Several regulars commented that my game had Potential. Delusions of future Tigerhood filled my head.

  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 te
ll 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?