Comfort Zone

Chapter 37

Costco day. Few would suspect the money to be saved in a private practice by regular trips to big-box and warehouse club stores. While medical supplies such as gloves, thermometers and K-Y jelly were obvious necessities, a practitioner also needed everyday items such as toilet paper, disinfectant wipes and postage stamps to keep things going. Saving money was key to surviving as an independent solo practitioner; thus, her frequent sojourns in search of a good deal.

She navigated her wagon aggressively through the crowd, glad to find her first item, pens, without too much hunting. Black pens only, no fancy colors for today, none of those blazing red markers that caught her eye, reminding her of the paper she'd discovered the day before. Who would have written in red ink? She resolutely ignored the sad eyes that flashed in her memory, and went in search of paper towels.

The following Monday, Miriam woke up early, had a good breakfast, and went to see her hospital patients before the office. No big problems, everything well under control. Plus she could look forward to a clean desk, courtesy of a missed drug dinner.

"How's your baby with the pacemaker?" Jean, the patient transporter greeted her as she headed back to the office. "Oh, I guess I can tell by your smiles."

Nearly at the same moment, Miriam heard someone call her name, and turned around to see Lilly Fielding's cardiologist.

"I saw our patient in the office today and she's doing great. She said to tell you she forgives you for the bruises." Dr. Fosse smiled at Miriam's delight before rushing away.

Why couldn't all problems end like the Fielding case? she thought.

Dr. Taylor had her chest tube out. Aside from some pain, she was doing fine. She didn't grill Miriam about going into nurses' stations or mention the topic at all, but to Miriam's eyes she smiled too brightly at her. At any rate, she would soon be discharged.

Wallace Cruz made it to his transplant appointment and the coordinators agreed he was a good candidate.

Ms. Baron, the patient who'd entrusted her with her M&Ms and Virginia Slims came back sporting a nicotine patch, a two pound weight loss, and a glow of success.

Lawrence Gill stopped by to tell her he'd found a new pain specialist, and he'd picked up a white chip—the initial commitment symbol—at Narcotics Anonymous. Miriam mentally thumbed her nose at the DEA.

Mr. White-Coat Hypertension faxed over a blood pressure log and the numbers were all perfect.

Lisa Phillips, her fever from the week before having happily vanished, came by the office to show off her son's winning composition, before hurrying away to pick up her children from school.

The building's maintenance person came promptly to fix the lock on the office's front door.

"It's all good," Miriam said to Belle.

"We're missing a tiny screw that keeps the whole mechanism together," the maintenance person explained. "I'll order it for you but it'll take a few days. Plus did you know the second lock isn't working either? We'll order that too."

"Sounds good," Miriam said, distracted by a computer that had suddenly started going in slo-mo for no obvious reason. Its turtle speed persisted, but finally sped up an hour later as she was answering a patient's question: is macaroni and cheese a vegetable?

"Radiology called. Patient's there for the test but you have the wrong diagnosis on the script." Belle intercepted her between patients, holding out a piece of paper. Miriam quickly scrutinized the patient's name, test ordered, and diagnosis.