Chapter 28

“Mr. Turner,” I say. “Your cholesterol is even worse than last time.”

Fred Turner frowns at me and scratches at his large belly. Mr. Turner has something called “central obesity,” which is a fancy way of saying that most of his fat is in the torso. It puts him at higher risk for heart disease, as does his high blood pressure and horrendous cholesterol. Mr. Turner is basically a walking coronary.

“Did you do what we talked about last time?” I ask him. “You know, about eating less red meat and more vegetables? And using whole grain bread instead of white bread?”

Mr. Turner nods slowly. “Yeah. Well, sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“See, I thought I was eating more whole grains,” he explains. “Like, I was buying a lot of whole grain bread instead of white bread because I know white bread is bad. But then I realized I was eating white bread in other forms by accident. ”

I raise my eyebrows at him. “By accident ?”

“Well, you didn’t explain it to me right.” He frowns at me accusingly. “You never told me that there were forms of white bread in donuts, pizza, lasagna…”

I stare at him. “Those foods are unhealthy for reasons other than their bread content.”

He doesn’t seem to be getting it.

I make Mr. Turner an appointment with the nutritionist, thinking maybe she’ll have better luck than I did. But also, I start him on a medication for his cholesterol. Because if you don’t understand why a donut is unhealthy, I think you might be a lost cause.

Mr. Turner is my last patient of the day, so I’ve got time to catch up on labs and phone calls. The first thing that pops up is the report from Herman Katz’s carotid ultrasound. His right carotid is about fifty percent blocked and the left symptomatic side clocks in at ninety percent. I knew it!

I look up Mr. Katz’s phone number under the demographics tab. He answers after only two rings with a breathless, “Hello?”

“Hello, Mr. Katz,” I say. “This is Dr. McGill from the VA Hospital.”

“Dr. McGill!” He sounds so obscenely thrilled to hear from me that you’d think he’d received a call from… well, I don’t know exactly who would impress Mr. Katz. Dwight D. Eisenhower? Ronald Reagan? Madonna? So meone important, anyway. “It’s so good to hear from you.”

“Right.” What do I say to that? “Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I got the results back from your carotid ultrasound—you know, that test they did on your neck?”

“Oh yes.” Mr. Katz’s voice becomes tense. “Do I have cancer, Doctor?”

“Cancer?” Christ, he’s single-minded. “No, you don’t. But you do have a blocked artery in your neck.”

“Oh.” He seems completely befuddled, as if such a thing had never even occurred to him. Even though I explained it to him prior to the test. “What does that mean?”

“Well,” I say, “it might have caused that symptom you had where you couldn’t see out of one eye. And if you don’t treat it, you might have a stroke.”

“A stroke ?” Mr. Katz sounds really panicked now. He might have dealt with cancer better—at least he was expecting that. “So what do I do to treat it?”

“I’m going to put in a consult for you,” I tell him, “with a vascular surgeon named Dr. Reilly. He’s excellent. He’s going to take good care of you, Mr. Katz.”

As I say it, I believe it. I really do. If I didn’t, why would I have referred him?

____ _

When I come out of the examining room to get some lunch, I can hear Dr. Kirschstein in the next room over, apparently seeing a patient of his own. As loud as he is with us, he seems even louder when he’s within the examining rooms. Maybe it’s something about the acoustics of the hallway. In any case, I can hear his voice booming all through the hallway.

“MR. MILTON, I THINK THIS RASH IN YOUR GROIN MIGHT BE CAUSED BY FUNGUS,” Dr. Kirschstein says to his patient, the unfortunate Mr. Milton.

I can’t hear Mr. Milton’s response, but then Dr. Kirschstein continues: “ARE YOU WASHING YOUR TESTICLES AND PENIS OFTEN ENOUGH?”

There’s a silence, during which time Mr. Milton is hopefully answering in the affirmative. Lisa comes out of an examining room and sees me standing there. She raises her eyebrows in the direction of Dr. Kirschstein’s room. “What’s the diagnosis?” she asks me.

“IT MIGHT BE HARD FOR YOU TO WASH THOROUGHLY BECAUSE YOUR PENIS IS SO SMALL,” Dr. Kirschstein adds.

Lisa clasps her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. “God, I love Dr. Kirschstein,” she says.

I roll my eyes. “Do you?”

“Oh, absolutely,” she says. “Even the eyebangs are sort of sexy. ”

That gets a laugh out of me. “Would you put him on your list?”

“I might,” she says thoughtfully, “if I were making an over sixty-five list.”

“An over sixty-five list?”

“Right.” She grins at me. “Celebrities over the age of sixty-five that I’m allowed to cheat with if the opportunity were to arise.”

“I see.” I smile back at her. “And who would be on that list?”

She comes up with an answer so quickly that I suspect she’s thought this over in the past. “Sting, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“Harrison Ford.”

“Okay. Reasonable.”

“Robert DeNiro.”

“Okay. And not totally unrealistic since he lives in TriBeCa.”

“Samuel L. Jackson.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Okay. I guess I can see it.”

“And… Richard Gere.”

I clasp my chest in mock horror. “No, not Richard Gere. He’s awful!”

“No, he’s sexy.”

“He’s such a scumbag.”

“A sexy scumbag. ”

“YOU’LL WANT TO APPLY THE CREAM I’M PRESCRIBING THOROUGHLY TO YOUR PENIS,” Dr. Kirschstein booms. “YOU SHOULDN’T NEED MUCH SINCE YOUR PENIS IS SO SMALL.”

Lisa giggles. “Speaking of sexy, what happened with your sexy surgeon?”

I glance at my watch, wondering if my next patient has arrived yet, and knowing Barbara will never make me aware of it. “Huh?”

Lisa tugs at one of her earrings. It’s a hoop so large that it nearly touches her shoulder. “You know who I mean. Dr. Sexy McSexerton.”

“You mean Ryan?” I avoid her gaze. “I don’t know. He’s busy.”

“It seemed like he was always sniffing around you for a while,” Lisa says. “Looking for you, pumping me for information…”

I freeze. “Pumping you for information?”

“Oh!” Lisa’s cherry red lips curl into a smile. “I didn’t tell you about that? I ran into him in the lobby when he first started. I was trying to make my usual brilliant conversation, but all he wanted to talk about was you. Jane, Jane, Jane…”

I get this sinking feeling in my chest. “He did?”

“And the way you’re always complaining about Ben… ”

“I don’t complain about Ben all the time!” I cry. Oh God, do I?

“Well, not lately,” Lisa admits. “But you used to. How he wouldn’t change the toilet paper roll. Or how he’s always on the toilet when you want to take a shower. A lot of toilet-related complaints.”

I laugh. “Well, I guess every couple has stupid problems like that.”

“I like Ben,” Lisa says. “He isn’t a phony. And every time I see you guys together, it’s obvious he’s super crazy about you. Unlike my idiot husband, who’d probably trade me in for a twenty-year-old blonde in a heartbeat.”

“Yeah, right.” Mike worships the ground Lisa walks on.

“You’re lucky you didn’t end up with Dr. McCutie,” she says. “He’s probably an arrogant asshole.”

There are reasons I’m lucky I didn’t end up with Ryan. But none of them are what Lisa thinks.