Page 11 of Look on the Bright Side

“Oh, we know all about you,” he said, “and listen, don’t feel bad because Oncology doesn’t want you. You’re more than welcome here as long as you keep the sobbing to a minimum.”

There was a ripple of laughter from the small cluster of people behind him. Her reputation preceded her, apparently.

“No promises,” she said, feeling her cheeks warm.

“I’m Howard Unger,” he said. “Medical director of the Emergency Department here. King, really. These are my subjects—Lalita Williams, MD; Miriam Fishbein, APRN; Daniel Newton, DO; and Mara Goshal, MD.” Three women and a guy nodded or waved or smiled. Cheery group. “Rena is the unit secretary,” Dr.Unger continued. “Our dark overlord and commander.”

“That’s my actual title,” said a middle-aged woman sitting behind a series of monitors. She smiled, too.

“Hi, Rena. Hi, everyone,” Lark said. “Great meeting you.”

“How do you feel about fecal impaction, Dr.Smith?” Dr.Unger asked, donning a serious expression.

She felt her mouth tug. “I’m passionate about fecal impaction.”

“That’s the attitude! She’ll fit right in. Okay, let’s go, team. Lark, you’re technically a second year, but since you’re new to us, you’re gonna get the crap jobs for a couple of weeks. Literally. Hello, Mrs.Hendricks! Rumor has it you haven’t pooped in more than a week. How are you feeling?”

Lark listened as Dr.Unger asked Mrs.Hendricks, a sour-faced woman in her seventies, about her medical history, pain, food consumption, bowel habits.

“What other questions should we ask, Dr.Smith?” he asked, turning to her.

“Uh, what was the consistency of the last stool you passed?”

“It was ropy and hard,” Mrs.Hendricks said.

“Was it dark or tarry?” Lark asked. Same words Luis had asked about Dr.Satan’s soul.

“Tarry? No. It was beige.”

“No blood?”

“No! Just ropy and beige! God! Do we have to talk about this, or can you people just give me something for the pain? My stomach is killing me.”

But emergencies required that the right questions be asked and answered, and the interrogation continued. Mrs.Hendricks snarled her answers about rectal discomfort, abdominal pain, anorexia, vomiting and a whole host of other questions.

“Okay,” Dr.Unger said. “Give us a minute, and we’ll be back soon.” Lark and the others trailed as Dr.Unger went to a computer station, logged in, flew through some screens and ordered an x-ray.

“We’ll have to wait a little while till you can scoop the poop, Dr.Smith, so let’s keep busy, shall we? Come, my little ducklings.” Dr.Unger led the way to the next bay. On the bed lay a teenager who’d cut his head while skateboarding. His dark hair was matted with blood, and the entire side of his face and neck were stained red. His mother sat beside him, looking both stressed and irritated.

Dr.Unger introduced himself and asked what happened. “Took a fall on my skateboard,” the kid said.

“Were you wearing a helmet?” Dr.Unger asked, pulling on some gloves to examine the wound.

“Nope.”

“No helmet,” Dr.Unger chided. “I’m inclined to let you bleed for another hour or two, just to teach you a lesson.”

“Cool,” said the kid, taking a selfie. “Bro, don’t even stitch me up. I’m a total badass.”

“Stop being such an idiot,” his mother told him, snatching his phone out of his hand. “This phone is mine now, and I’m burning that stupid board when we get home.” She looked at Dr.Unger. “He was videoing himself, skated right into a signpost, and now he’s making jokes.”

“Cause of injury: idiocy,” Dr.Unger intoned. “But, Jackson, seriously, thank you, because we love stapling heads. Mara, you’re up, I believe.”

“Thank you, Jackson,” Mara said. “This will truly be a highlight of my day.” The cheeky attitude was sure different from Oncology.

“I don’t even want you to numb his head,” the mom said. “Maybe this way, he’ll learn a lesson.”

“I’m sorry I can’t accommodate you there,” Dr.Unger said. “That pesky Hippocratic oath. But Lark here could kick him really hard in the shin, right, Dr.Smith?”

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