Page 10 of Plentywood
“I make crosses with these,” she said, waving one at me. “Some I paint. Some I leave the original wood color, so they’re more like the one Jesus hung from.”
“I’m doctor Hawthorne,” I said, closing the door behind me. “You must be Mrs. Howard.”
She examined a sealed bag with a syringe inside before leaving it in the drawer. “I’m not sure I am,” she said, turning and sitting on a chair in the corner. “I’m not even sure of the day of the week. Who are you?” she asked, rubbing her temples. “Where’s Agnes?”
“And who is Agnes?” I asked, testing her memory.
“Agnes Brewster,” she answered. “The longtime nurse.”
“So you remember her?”
She studied me carefully, wondering if she’d been tricked or not. “Who?” she quickly amended.
“Have you been cleaning your ears regularly, Mrs. Howard?”
“Probably not, doc,” she replied. “I think it’s something far more serious this time. Maybe a brain tumor,” she added. “I live under a power pole. My dead husband had shrunken testicles too.”
“And when did your husband die?” I asked, beginning the exam without her knowing.
“August, two years ago. The day was a Sunday, I think. Because Wheel of Fortune wasn’t on that night,” she began. “Of course, summer is all reruns, so I probably saw it before. I fixed flank steak for my Walter. He loved flank steak.”
“No vegetables?” I asked, reaching for and holding her wrist to take her pulse.
“Carrots. Boiled carrots, with some sugar and butter. My Walter loved sugared carrots.”
“I’m sure you miss him.”
“Some days,” she agreed. “Truthfully, not some days, too.”
I slipped a blood pressure cuff on her while she gave me a blow-by-blow account of how Walter snored a lot and was pretty much a complainer about the world. She, on the other hand, was an optimist, she declared. Telling me all about the good stock market and how much she admired President Biden’s wife, Jill.
“Your blood pressure is very good, Mrs. Howard.” So was her memory, but I kept that diagnosis internal for the moment. “How about the rest of your health? Are you feeling okay on most days?”
She looked at me quizzically. “Why would you ask me that, doc?”
“Well, you’re here for some reason, aren’t you?”
She fussed with her smock’s neckline and looked around the room, her eyes welling up. “I always come here on Mondays.”
I opened her chart and read her medical history. She did, in fact, come in weekly. “I see here that you started coming in once a week about two years ago,” I said, setting the file down and wheeling my stool closer to her, resting a hand on hers. “Are you particularly worried about something, Mrs. Howard?”
“I’m losing my mind, aren’t I?” she whispered. “It’s getting harder to remember my Walter ever since he passed.”
“What do you miss the most about Walter, ma’am? Tell me your favorite memory of him.”
Mrs. Howard shared a cherished memory of her deceased husband, not leaving out a single detail, as she regaled me with his wit and conversational skills. He sounded like quite the man the way she told his story.
“I bet you miss his voice, don’t you?” I asked, looking her directly in the eye. “He sounds like a wonderful man.”
“Maybe I could go play bingo?” she half asked, half stated. “You think my Walter would be okay with that? You know, maybe if I went out and did stuff with other folks?”
“I’m betting that the man you described to me would want you to enjoy life. I say you go for it.”
After wrapping up the exam, we went into the hallway, where Agnes was making notes in patient files. “See you next Monday, Estelle,” Agnes said.
“Probably not, Agnes. I’ve got some living to do.”
Mrs. Howard practically floated out of the back office, Agnes witnessing her exit before turning back to me. “What’d you say to her?”
