INTERSECTIONS

PART 2

No, I Didn’t Have Favorite Patients, but . . .

When I was little, my mother told me I had to stay at the table until I ate at least one piece of liver. I tried logic, I tried facts. I explained to her that the liver is the body’s filter for toxins, so eating that would be akin to licking the lint filter on the dryer. She didn’t buy the scientific approach. So, I told her I would rather grow up  sitting at the kitchen table than eat liver. Perhaps my natural contrariness explains my affinity for the more cantankerous patients; I could meet them where they were–railing against the situation, the injustice, the fear. I have more railing in me than Burlington Northern. Some patients could be a titch difficult, but I was perfectly aware that I was going to be just like that. Those “do not go gentle into that good night” folks have a special spot in my heart. One was Hazel.

Hazel was referred to hospice. When she opened her door on my first visit, I took one step forward and two steps back. I suggested we chat on her front porch. She had several cats and no litter boxes. Her overstuffed chairs had served as litterboxes for years. Trash was taken out by her son, maybe now and then. I don’t mind clutter, but  the air in her home was unbreathable. Still, I learned to deal with it.

Hazel, like many in her age group, was firm in her resolve to remain in her home. She was a tiny, wiry woman, clearly not related to the Wallendas; she careened around her house, rebounding off door jambs and furniture. There are lists of risks professionals use to assess the likelihood that a person will be able to remain at home alone. Hazel lit up all those indicators and a few more. But, those list-makers did not know Hazel.

One weekend, I was on call and received a call that Hazel had fallen and cut her forehead. She greeted me at the door with a red slit from eyebrow to hairline. It wasn’t bleeding much, but clearly it needed stitches. Hazel was wearing her nightie and one small post earring, and she wasn’t about to go to the ER until she found the other one. You could throw a tiny earring into the crowd at a football stadium and have about the same chance of retrieving it, but we gave it a go. Tore her bed apart. Fearlessly looked under the bed. After half an hour, I told her we really needed to get her head repaired. I sat on the edge of her bed to help her get dressed. She took off her nightie, handed me her sweat pants, and stood before me. And there it was! One gold earring, imbedded, sharp little  post pressed well into her bottom. Ouch. Hazel was a long way from The Princess and the Pea. I retrieved the earring, she put it on, and off we went.

A young, newly-minted doc examined Hazel and stitched her up. I think he may have been doing French knots because it took him forever. Finally, he looked up from her chart and practiced his best doctor-patient tone.

“Hazel, I see you’ve had a few falls. I think it’s time we think about a nursing home.” She sat up, leaned in, and put her face inches from his.

“Young man,” she said, using her best you’re-a-little-whippersnapper tone, “there’s worse things than stitches.”

She hopped off the table, and we left.

There’s worse things than stitches, alright. Liver comes to mind.