Page 30 of Prognosis Incompatible

CHAPTER FIVE

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MARCUS had half anhour before the arrival of his first-ever patient in his new practice. He could smell the nose-hair stripping aroma of paint, built up to near toxic levels from the offices being shut up all night, and he quickly opened all the windows and lit an incense stick placing it on the front counter to help disperse the chemical odour.

He wandered into his office and approved of how it looked. It was tranquil, the neutral wall colour had the slightest hint of green and natural light filled the room from the skylight he’d had installed in the ceiling. On two walls he had a sequential series of framed paintings. The scenes depicted a rainforest at different times of the day. Marcus loved their restful quality.

On the wall where his desk was positioned he had his framed qualifications because, more often than not in his line of work, people demanded to see them. He smiled, thinking about it — no one ever asked their GPs for their qualifications! On the fourth wall there was a variety of different charts. One was a map of the iris for iridology purposes, another the foot for reflexology, and the last one mapped the human chakras.

Many of his conventional medical colleagues who grudgingly accepted his homeopathic beliefs balked at the mention of chakras or zones of energy within the body. As a university-trained medical doctor he knew that such ideas didn’t have any foundation in Western medicine. But he also knew that illness was multi-factorial and that everything needed to be taken into account, including the metaphysical.

He sat at his desk in his swivel chair and turned it until he was facing the shut cupboard behind him. He opened the doors and pulled out one of three wide shallow sliding drawers and looked with great pleasure at the rows and rows of little brown remedy bottles. He picked up a couple and ran his fingers over the labels before replacing them and shutting the doors.

Pushing away from the desk he moved to the next room, which he had set aside for massage therapy. He was a fully qualified masseur with certificates in remedial, deep tissue and sports massage, as well as specialising in Bowen therapy.

The massage table was in the centre of the room. An old-fashioned dresser that he had bought at an antique store was at the far end and held all his towels and equipment such as essential oils, CD player and CDs. The walls were the same soothing colour and the ceiling had a rainforest mural painted on it, the central skylight representing the sun and its life-sustaining energy.

He was pleased. It felt much more like his own place than his office in Melbourne ever had. He had inherited that, along with the client list from a retiring colleague, and because it had been part of an office complex with strict limitations on alterations and was already a really successful practice, Marcus hadn’t felt able to put his own personal stamp on it.

But here — it was all his and pride glowed in his chest as he walked out to the reception area. It looked like any other doctor’s reception with one exception — no secretary. Unless he became exceptionally busy, Marcus planned on doing the reception stuff himself.

Consultations were usually lengthy so it wasn’t as if he had to juggle a hundred patients a day. In fact, ten patients a day was his upper limit. And, in between clients, he could use the state-of-the-art computer system on the desk to update client information and note their progress.

A few fat squishy leather lounges, sourced from op-shops, gave it a retro feel and the wall art was modern but restful. There was a variety of magazines, from alternative health glossies through to the tabloid press. And a large wooden toy box full of things to occupy little hands.

On one of the walls there was a wire rack that boasted a variety of informative pamphlets concerning common illnesses and homeopathic remedies. These were put out by various natural therapy bodies and held lots of good common-sense advice.

Marcus was just switching on his Sounds of the Rainforest CD as Connie opened his sliding door.

‘Ah, my first customer. Good morning, Mrs Fullbright. These are for you,’ he said, presenting her with a bunch of flowers he had bought from the florist on his way in.

‘Oh, my,’ said Connie, placing her hand against her chest and beaming at Marcus. ‘What on earth for?’

‘My first ever client in my new practice,’ he said, grinning at Connie as she turned a lovely shade of pink. ‘These things should be celebrated.’

‘Oh, I don’t know, Dr Hunt,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you should wait until after the consultation. See, I’m a bit of a conundrum. I’m afraid I can be a bit of a bother.’

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