Page 25 of Best Year Ever

Unable to find words, I just shake my head. I don’t think she’s ever called me Grayson before, and that, combined with her serious voice, shakes me.

“Your care is completely confidential,” I say.

She raises her eyebrows, her expression full of challenge. “You say that to the students, don’t you?”

I move my chair a little closer. “No, in fact. I don’t. Because they’re children. Their parents are informed when they request access to the files. You are different, for a million reasons. I’ll never share anything with anyone other than your medical teams.”

She sighs. “I know. I apologize if I’m being demanding or unreasonable.”

“Neither. You have every right to privacy, and your trust is important to me.”

“Thank you,” she says. “I think I’m scared.” She holds her hand out to me. “I don’t love getting old.”

With that opening, and the invitation of her gesture, I take her hand in mine, and without exam gloves, I can feel the powdery softness of her skin. Every knuckle in her fingers is like a bead on a chain.

I want to say something suave and chivalrous, to continue the game we all play of adoring Wanda and pretending she’ll never age, never leave us. But that’s not my job right now. “I believe you,” I say. “And I’ll do my best to make it less frightening. Starting right now with an oxygen treatment. Do you mind if I bring Kimberly in on this? She is as committed to your care as she is to your privacy.”

It’s strange that I’ve never had this conversation with a patient here before. I see all the teachers and staff for their general ailments, but nobody has ever worried—at least aloud, to me—that their care might become fodder for public commentary. The thought crosses my mind that some people in a tight community like Chamberlain might refuse medical care out of concern for their privacy. Of all the reasons I’ve worried about equity in healthcare, this is new to me.

Kimberly comes in with an oxygen tank and a mask, and we help Wanda get comfortable. Normally I’d leave this part to Kimberly, but I don’t want to leave the room. I tell Kimberly she can go if she’d like, but she shakes her head and pulls up a chair on Wanda’s other side. She takes Wanda’s hand in a way that I wish I could, and we sit in the quiet for a few minutes.

Soon, Wanda lifts the edge of the mask and asks, “Do you have anything around here to read?”

I hand her my tablet. “Journal of American Medicine?” I ask, mostly joking.

She lifts the mask again enough to show me her scowl of displeasure.

“I have a copy of Desi Chappell’s first poetry book in my office,” I tell her. “Does that appeal more than medical journalism?”

She chuckles. “Even if it wasn’t amazing, yes. It would appeal more.”

Kimberly stands up to go get it, and she’s back quickly. She hands the small, leather-bound book to Wanda, but she shakes her head and points to me. Through the mask, she says, “Read it to me.”

Here’s something they don’t prepare you for in medical school: Reading love poems to your eighty-year-old boss while she receives oxygen treatments. Which is too bad, really, because it might keep more people in training. It’s absolutely delightful. She sighs and her eyes close and occasionally her hands come over her heart. Once or twice, I’m pretty sure she’s reciting along with me.

Before long, the treatment is done. We get Wanda unwrapped from the mask and the blanket and she sits at the edge of the table.

“How are you feeling?” I ask her, checking her pulse and her O2 levels.

“Great. Amazing. We should do this every day.”

I think she’s kidding, but it’s not a bad idea.

“Think about it. We can make it happen, if this is the way you want to do treatments. Or I can send you home with a tank. You don’t need the big mask. We can fit you with a cannula.”

I touch the space between my lips and my nose with two fingers, showing what I mean, and Wanda shakes her head. “I don’t want to look like an old person with tubes up my nose.”

My instinct is to tell her it’s more important to breathe than to look put together, but I think better of it. She now knows the breathing treatments work for her. She feels better and stronger now than she did an hour ago. She will take the oxygen—she’s not going to fight about that. But she probably doesn’t need a tank to move everywhere with her through her day. And if she’d like to keep this development private, she can.

I ask her for the name of the cardiologist she’s meeting next month so I can report on today’s visit and suggest testing for COPD, which isn’t a heart thing so much as a lung thing, but her specialist is much better suited to that kind of exploration. I’m in more of a flu-shot-and-stitches situation. Not that I resent the general medicine I practice. This is a great job, and running my own clinic is a dream. Even if the Chamberlain clinic isn’t precisely mine, I love having the freedom to live and work the way I want to.

Kimberly and I clean up the exam rooms and close up for the evening. I hold her coat out for her, and she slips her arms into her sleeves.

“Thanks for staying late and helping with the surprise visit,” I say.

She nods. “We’re not going to talk about it, are we?”

I smile, but it’s a stretch. “No, we’re not. Just like any other patient, she gets the honor of privacy.”

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