Page 3 of Careless Hope
Caroline
The sterile scentof antiseptic was heavy in the air, and I tried to ignore the way it always made my nose itch as I focused on the patient in front of me. Jim Lawry, a wiry man with skin like leather from years under the unforgiving sun, squirmed on the examination table.
“Doc,” he grumbled, shifting uncomfortably, “No offense, but when I said I wanted to see Dr. Cressley, I meant your father.”
I suppressed a sigh, fighting down the frustration that was bubbling up inside me. “My dad retired last month, Mr. Lawry. You’re stuck with me, I’m afraid.” I snapped off one glove and reached for his chart, trying to keep my tone light despite the challenge. “Now, let’s talk about what I can do to help you with your . . . situation.”
He huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “This ain’t something a young lady like yourself should be dealing with.” He lowered his voice and hissed a whisper. “It’s embarrassing.”
“Trust me, there’s nothing you have that I haven’t seenbefore.” I offered him a reassuring smile, though I knew my eyes were probably giving away more of my nerves than I’d like. “And if we don’t diagnose the problem, we can’t treat it, and you’ll be in even more discomfort. You don’t want that now, do you?”
Mr. Lawry grumbled under his breath, clearly still unconvinced, but after a moment, he reluctantly nodded. I could see the embarrassment in his eyes, but also something else.
A wariness. Skepticism clouded his judgment about my abilities as a doctor. It wasn’t the first time I had faced such resistance from the residents of Whittier Falls since my recent return.
As I delved into a series of questions to pinpoint his symptoms, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of unease creeping up within me. Taking over my father’s practice should have been easy. Well, as far as medical practice goes.
Whittier Falls was a small town and he had been the only family practitioner here for over a decade. No competition, low stakes. After doing my residency in Chicago, I’d been more worried about getting bored when I decided to take the role. Instead, I found myself dealing with patients who doubted my capabilities simply because of my age and gender.
I’d had a promising career in Emergency Medicine when Dad called to offer me the practice. And now I was here on the verge of begging old Mr. Lawry to pull his pants down so I can examine his suspected hemorrhoids or we’d both be here all day.
“Sir, I promise this will be a quick and professional exam. The sooner we can get to it, the sooner you can get out of here. Now you can lay on the table, or bend over, whatever you’re more comfortable with. But either way, you’re going to need to show me your anus.”
His eyes widened and we embarked on a stare-off of epic proportions. But when he finally blinked, I nodded, gesturingto his pants. He had no choice but to accept his fate. I refused to fail. After a moment, Mr. Lawry turned around, grumbling, and hesitantly lowered his Wranglers, bending over to give me a better view.
Sure enough, I was greeted by red, swollen bumps protruding from his butthole, just as I suspected. An ugly view before lunch, but it was an easy diagnosis.
“Alright, thank you. You can pull your jeans back up.”
He visibly sank in relief as he pulled them up.
“There’s no current bleeding, but I did see some mucus and they are at risk of bursting if you’re not careful. Until they calm down, I suggest using a peri bottle or rinsing off in the shower after you have a bowel movement. Wiping with toilet paper will only inflame the area.”
The poor old man looked at me like he was going to faint from embarrassment.
“I’ll give you a prescription for some cream that should help with the inflammation. Use it twice per day and if you experience any further symptoms, or it doesn’t start to clear up in a few days, give us a call.”
After scribbling out the details, I handed it to him and ushered him toward the door, feeling the sweat prickle at the back of my neck.
I wasn’t a wimp. I’d handled far worse things in the ER on a daily basis. But for some reason, small town life where everyone knew everyone else made these types of cases feel different. Personal. And I really didn’t want to be personal with Mr. Lawry’s ass.
“Thanks, Doc,” he muttered, snatching the prescription and tipping his hat with a reluctant sort of gratitude. “Guess I’ll give it a try.”
“Good. And don’t hesitate to call if you have any questions,” I called after him, hoping my voice sounded more cheerful than I felt.
The door closed behind him with a click, and I let out a deep breath. My old cowboy boots, which I had stubbornly decided to wear today in some sort of misguided attempt to reconnect with my roots—and okay, yeah, connect with the patients—tapped against the linoleum as I walked into the reception area. The room was empty, save for the tick-tock of the old clock on the wall and the low hum of the ancient air conditioner.
“Looks like you’re free until after lunch, Caroline,” my receptionist Lisa said, looking up from her romance novel with a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes.
“Great,” I replied, my own smile a mix of relief and exhaustion.
“But, uh, we had two cancellations for tomorrow.”
“Oh. Did they reschedule?”
Lisa looked pained. Great.
“It’s okay, you can tell me.”
