(DEBUT AUTHOR)
TO ESTABLISH CARE
ROSEY LEE
TO ESTABLISH CARE
ROSEY LEE
I hate when patients cry. It gives me less time to get things done during the appointment. Assuming she had children, I asked if she could live with one of them while she recuperated.
Then the tears started.
“I’m not usually so emotional,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I’ve held this all in for so long.”
She said she had a daughter, but she hadn’t talked about her since she left her hometown. She wanted more for the four-year-old than she could offer, she told me, and she wanted more for her own life than her journey as an uneducated African American single mother in rural Louisiana allowed.
My clicking keyboard muffled her sobs as I entered the details of her physical exam into her medical record. She was here to establish care in our practice, and it was also her first time seeing a doctor since her discharge from the hospital. Wanting to cover more important issues, I had neglected to ask about her familial support when I took her social history. I was paying for that miscalculation now.
“I thought it would be easier by myself. Other people complicate things. You know, thinking about someone else can be distracting when you’re trying to pull yourself up,” she said. “But now I don’t have anyone to take care of me. I never thought about that part until I got sick. Things never seem to go as you think they will.”
I feigned interest in her feelings, spurred by the pressure of being the youngest woman and first African American on our practice’s partnership track. I needed to be efficient. My patient satisfaction scores were falling, and my annual evaluation was coming soon. This visit was already running late. Waiting patients in the neighboring rooms would probably note my tardiness on their satisfaction surveys. Perhaps this patient reporting a good experience during her visit would offset their complaints and the longstanding perceptions about my cold demeanor.
I offered her a box of tissues.
“No, thank you,” she sniveled, pulling an embroidered handkerchief from her vintage Chanel tote.
I hoped my attempt to connect with the patient would suffice. I resumed my typing, placing the orders for the home health and physical therapy referrals she needed. I didn’t have room for tears in my life. I’d done what was needed, putting myself through college and medical school without family to cheer me on. Being shuffled between foster homes taught me I could count only on myself. I treasured my time alone so much that I was still angry with the nursing staff for the birthday breakfast they’d thrown for me this morning. I had told them I don’t care about birthdays, but they insisted. Had it not been for that breakfast, my appointments wouldn’t be so behind today. I just needed to catch up now.
I recommended she return to our office in two weeks and explained that our social worker would follow up with her about the home health and therapy appointments.
She fiddled with her double-beaded necklace and shook her head. “I’d prefer not to talk to the social worker,” she said. “I’ll have my assistant coordinate everything. She’ll have to work overtime, but it’ll be fine. That’s what money’s for.”
I tried to end the visit, but she rambled on about the last time she talked to a social worker. Half listening, I reviewed the chart of my next patient.
“She seemed nice, so I signed the papers and left,” she said. “I haven’t talked to another social worker or gone back to Waterproof since—not even to evacuate there for Hurricane Katrina. No thank you,” she said.
I peered around the computer screen. “Waterproof?” I asked. “I grew up there.”
“Really? Tomorrow makes thirty years since I left,” she said, and she started crying again. “I’m sorry. I’ve held this in for so long, and today is her birthday.”
I stepped away from the computer.
“Today’s her birthday?” I asked as tears fell from my eyes.
Then the tears started.
“I’m not usually so emotional,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I’ve held this all in for so long.”
She said she had a daughter, but she hadn’t talked about her since she left her hometown. She wanted more for the four-year-old than she could offer, she told me, and she wanted more for her own life than her journey as an uneducated African American single mother in rural Louisiana allowed.
My clicking keyboard muffled her sobs as I entered the details of her physical exam into her medical record. She was here to establish care in our practice, and it was also her first time seeing a doctor since her discharge from the hospital. Wanting to cover more important issues, I had neglected to ask about her familial support when I took her social history. I was paying for that miscalculation now.
“I thought it would be easier by myself. Other people complicate things. You know, thinking about someone else can be distracting when you’re trying to pull yourself up,” she said. “But now I don’t have anyone to take care of me. I never thought about that part until I got sick. Things never seem to go as you think they will.”
I feigned interest in her feelings, spurred by the pressure of being the youngest woman and first African American on our practice’s partnership track. I needed to be efficient. My patient satisfaction scores were falling, and my annual evaluation was coming soon. This visit was already running late. Waiting patients in the neighboring rooms would probably note my tardiness on their satisfaction surveys. Perhaps this patient reporting a good experience during her visit would offset their complaints and the longstanding perceptions about my cold demeanor.
I offered her a box of tissues.
“No, thank you,” she sniveled, pulling an embroidered handkerchief from her vintage Chanel tote.
I hoped my attempt to connect with the patient would suffice. I resumed my typing, placing the orders for the home health and physical therapy referrals she needed. I didn’t have room for tears in my life. I’d done what was needed, putting myself through college and medical school without family to cheer me on. Being shuffled between foster homes taught me I could count only on myself. I treasured my time alone so much that I was still angry with the nursing staff for the birthday breakfast they’d thrown for me this morning. I had told them I don’t care about birthdays, but they insisted. Had it not been for that breakfast, my appointments wouldn’t be so behind today. I just needed to catch up now.
I recommended she return to our office in two weeks and explained that our social worker would follow up with her about the home health and therapy appointments.
She fiddled with her double-beaded necklace and shook her head. “I’d prefer not to talk to the social worker,” she said. “I’ll have my assistant coordinate everything. She’ll have to work overtime, but it’ll be fine. That’s what money’s for.”
I tried to end the visit, but she rambled on about the last time she talked to a social worker. Half listening, I reviewed the chart of my next patient.
“She seemed nice, so I signed the papers and left,” she said. “I haven’t talked to another social worker or gone back to Waterproof since—not even to evacuate there for Hurricane Katrina. No thank you,” she said.
I peered around the computer screen. “Waterproof?” I asked. “I grew up there.”
“Really? Tomorrow makes thirty years since I left,” she said, and she started crying again. “I’m sorry. I’ve held this in for so long, and today is her birthday.”
I stepped away from the computer.
“Today’s her birthday?” I asked as tears fell from my eyes.
Rosey Lee is an emerging writer and New Orleans native who lives in Atlanta. Her work has appeared in Bending Genres and Literary AMWA. She enjoys cooking, flower arranging, listening to live music, and occasional bursts of fanatic bargain shopping. Learn more at her website – roseyleebooks.com, and follow her on Twitter @roseyleebooks.