and then marched into the sea, the line would never end. Just the sheer numbers from childbirth would make it self-perpetuating. Surely, this anecdote would apply to his patients, specifically his Medicare patients. Thousands of people were turning sixty-five every day.
Fortunately, Moe realized that today was a bad day and tomorrow he would not feel this way. Sighing, he looked up at his office wall clock. Though it was only 9:30 a.m., he was already tired. It had been one-hell-of-a-week. Rusty had been in New Orleans at the annual American Urological Association convention, leaving the entire load to Moe. Then he had to cancel out for the funeral, so they were way behind. If it wasn’t for the enormous amount of work, Moe would be just as happy if Rusty never returned. Unfortunately, that was unlikely. Rusty had such a sweet deal with Moe, why go anywhere else? For bad or worse, he was due to return this evening.
Moe had been to those national conventions before and he knew they were basically a guise for a tax-deductible vacation, particularly in New Orleans. How could one hold a serious scientific session in New Orleans? However, knowing Rusty, he probably was actually going to the meetings and not taking in New Orleans’ notorious nightlife.
Rusty would return with some new, irritating, and currently fashionable procedure that he would want to try, hinting that if Urology Associates didn’t incorporate this procedure in their surgical repertoire, they were somehow practicing archaic medicine. In general, Rusty was becoming more and more annoying as the years went by.
“Morning, Sally. What’s the chance of canceling out the day?”
Sally was a small energetic woman with fading good looks. Her once empathetic smile had eroded to indifference, not from personal problems or excessive use of make-up, but from years of haggling with patients over bills, co-payments, secondary insurances, and over what indeed constituted an emergency.
“Don’t even think about it, Dr. Mathis.” She didn’t smile as she swung her right hand in an arc, gesturing at the waiting room. “You’re not leaving me with that. Anyway, I’m sorry about your father. It must be hard.”
“We were never very close,” Moe said. “But sometimes that makes it harder.”
“I know,” Sally smiled sympathetically. “Sometimes it drives you nuts, just trying to make sense of it all.”
“Thanks Sally. Looks like the patients are restless, I better get to work.”
“Moe, you look like hell. If you want me to cancel—”
“Nah, sometimes work is therapeutic. Occupies your mind.”
“At least you have real vacation coming up in three weeks.”
“Yeah, I really need some time away from this place.”
Not only as Sally had said, ‘you look like hell,” Moe also felt like hell. The week was a blur, like watching a movie with the VCR on fast-forward. He was vaguely disoriented and had no sense of balance or proportion. No time to assimilate the week’s events. With his father’s illness, his subsequent death and the murder of the colt, it was no wonder he felt like hell.
For the past week, in lieu of sleeping, he stared at the murky black ceiling of his motel, imagining it was a black hole. Everything he loved and had worked for these last forty-one years was being sucked through that hole and scattered somewhere off in space. Since his divorce, Moe had been spending a lot of time, too much time, on personal introspection. His life seemed empty and meaningless. At times he wondered why, and for whom, he worked so hard. Then he remembered, he worked this hard to pay his alimony and taxes. Now it all makes sense, Moe had thought bitterly, his life did have a purpose. Yes, right now he felt like hell and even worse, he suspected that things were not going to get any better, at least not in the foreseeable future.
After leaving the business office, Moe navigated the short distance to the back office. His office nurse was in the lab, peering at a urine sample through the microscope.
“Morning Diane.”
Diane glanced up. “Sorry about your father,” she said stiffly.
“Thanks.” Moe changed the subject immediately. He was tired of talking about his father and the funeral. “Who’s urine you looking at?”
“Julie McAllister. Room number two. Bed wetter.”
“See anything?”
“It’s clear, Dr. Mathis, just a few epithelial cells and some oxalate crystals,” Diane said coldly.
For twelve years Diane had assisted Moe. Five years ago she had dropped the formality of calling him Doctor in favor of the more intimate, Moe. That was, of course, until just the last few months, when he again became Dr.Mathis. Diane again calling him Doctor, reminded Moe of his mother. As a child he was Moe, except when she was displeased with him, then he instantly became Moses. Moe knew exactly what the problem was with Diane and why he was now again Dr. Mathis, but had no idea how to deal with it. Diane was hurt, offended and angry.
“What contestants do we have today? Any surprises behind any of the three doors this morning?” Moe bantered, gesturing at the patient exam rooms.
He was trying hard with this line. It used to be an inside joke but today, it only managed to scour a pinched smile from Diane. Though certainly not in the same league as Diane Parkinson of The Price Is Right, when she smiled, Diane instantly changed from a plain to an engaging, if not an overtly attractive, woman. However, there had been a paucity of smiles lately.
“Behind door number one,” she hissed. “We have Howard H. Swensen, here for a mildly elevated PSA of 8.7, referred by Dr. Holman. He’s an okay guy. He’s in my ward at church.”
“What’s got into Holman?” Moe asked. “He never sends me anything.”
“You know why, don’t you?” Diane asked.
“No. Why?”
“It’s simple. Dr. Holman is religious, a stake president. You’re not.”
“You really think that makes a difference?” Moe asked. “To men that have over twenty years of education.”
Diane shrugged indifferently. “What do you think?”
“I don’t,” Moe replied. “Maybe. What else you got?”
“Behind door number two, there is Julie McCallister, an eight-year-old referred by Dr. Greenfeldt for enuresis, your favorite non-disease. This is her urine. Big surprise, it’s normal. And finally, behind door number three, is another elevated PSA. Mr. Robert E. Robinson, referred by, believe it or not, Dr. Butras.
“Not from Dr. Butras,” Moe joked. “I hate calling him back about his referrals.”
“Fortunately, he writes more clearly than he speaks. The referral form is on the chart. You won’t have to call him, just send back the form.”
“Whatever you say.” Moe smiled.
Diane pushed past him. “I’ve got to post this urinalysis slip in Julie’s chart.” Then almost immediately she turned back and sneered, “Oh, I almost forgot, in your office, there is a pretty drug detail woman from Merck.”
“What’s
