Comfort Zone

Chapter 43

"We owe you an apology, Dr. Gotlin."

To Miriam's surprise, the Milhouses sat in front of her, looking and acting the same despite the bombshell she'd just laid, gently as possible, at their feet.

"I'm sorry we didn't tell you the truth. About our lifestyle," the husband said. "You see, we're still hippies, children of the sixties, free love and all. I think it's called a polyamorous lifestyle these days. Usually we're more careful."

"It's just luck that I didn't pass it on to my husband. Thanks for detecting it when you did."

Miriam forced on a reassuring face, as if this was a commonplace update, before fleeing to the safe blandness of the computer screen, specifically the social history section. She'd never even asked them about their sex life.

"I'm sorry too," she said when she regained her composure and her words came back. "I shouldn't have assumed..." She trailed off. ...that you were as vanilla and goody goody as you looked.

They just nodded and smiled while Miriam struggled to see the tie dye and peace symbols behind their pleasantly wrinkled faces, promising to counsel and test the two regularly.

Mr. Milhouse held his wife's hand while she got the penicillin injection.

After she finished seeing patients, Miriam logged into the hospital's electronic record, glad to see that the glitch in the system seemed to be fixed. She could bring up a patient list and access results, notes, and other vital parts of the record. When she tried to write the overdue note, though, it still locked her out. She called IT and again extracted a promise that they would get on it immediately.

But that was just a minor irritation. What she could access, all too easily, were her hospital rating scores. As promised at that long ago medical meeting, they jumped out at her like cockroaches from Caroline Foster's cabinets.

Her eyes scanned down the list. Rates of infection, length of stay of patients and if they'd been readmitted within thirty days, and...patient satisfaction.

Only 73%?? A full one quarter of her patients weren't satisfied by her communication skills?

The electronic system was only too happy to provide Miriam with improvement tips for her--lousy? defective? deficient? inadequate?--bedside manner. Sit down when speaking with a patient; communicate expertise and experience; take time to ask the patient and family, "Do you have any other questions? Is there anything else I can do for you?"

How may I be of exceptional service?

She sat stewing, annoyance spilling over. Maybe she should only accept easy patients who weren't likely to complain. Tell them exactly what they wanted to hear; people loved that. "You're absolutely right, Mr. Scott," she could hear herself saying. "You don't need that pill for cholesterol." And maybe she shouldn't care for someone like Lisa Phillips, who needed to be admitted frequently. How long before the insurance companies berated her for that, and cut her pay?

Enough of that. Everything and everybody got rated these days--movies, beauty queens, patients' ability to survive a pandemic--why should doctors be immune? Sighing, she decided to dictate Vega's discharge note. Chaos might reign in her life, dissatisfaction run rampant...but at least her notes would be up to date.

Miriam picked up the receiver resolutely, but her cell phone went off at the same time. She looked at the caller ID with trepidation. Finally.

"Miriam?"

"Hi, Joshua. Any baby news? Isn't your wife due soon?"

"Ready to pop in the next couple of weeks. Hey, I'm sorry I didn't answer your text. How was the sunset?"