A Medical Examination
By Zvi Zaks
Copyright 2010 by Zvi Zaks
ISBN: 9781301134007
Doctor Donald Farber opened the door to his examining room, a small area with medical diagrams and diplomas on white walls, a faint smell of disinfectant, and--he had to admit--no personality. Inside, a woman in a short, bright floral dress sat fidgeting next to the computerdesk. Farber looked at his watch and, for the fifth time that afternoon, checked the date, July 18, 2023. One day before July 19th. He walked to the desk and sat down, trying to appear bright and cheery for the patient. It had been a long day. Would she mind if he excused himself for a cup of coffee? She probably would.
"Hello. I'm Doctor Farber," he said and, without looking at her, opened her file and squinted at the monitor. "And you are Angela Lovejoy."
She nodded. "Yes."
He turned towards her. She looked mid forties, overweight, with curly blonde hair and dark brown roots. The corner of her mouth turned up in a nervous half-smile. Bright red lipstick, dark mascara, and face powder covered her features. Her dress showed moderate cleavage when she hunched forward, as she was doing now. Donald Farber, age 55, bald and divorced, felt a wisp of lust too faint to bother suppressing. "Ms. Lovejoy, why are you here today?"
"I have a mandatory medical exam." Her voice quavered. She looked down, avoiding his eye.
"You don't look happy about it."
"Well, Doctor Farber, no one likes to have to be examined. I hate examinations, especially pelvic exams."
He turned back to the computer and scrolled through screens of data. She was a secretary, on her third marriage, and had two teenagers. Other than a hysterectomy last year, she had suffered no major illness or operations. Her actual age was 37. "Since you had that operation, you don't need routine pelvic exams." He smiled.
She didn't smile back.
His smile vanished. "You're still unhappy."
"It's the thought of being forced, a mandatory exam. I'm an adult. I know when I need to see a doctor."
He frowned. "It's not really mandatory. No one will arrest you if you don't show up."
"Yes, but if I don't have the exam, I'll lose my medical insurance, and without insurance I'll lose my job. To me, that makes it mandatory."
He looked at a large wall calendar with a colorful ad for an insurance company. The date was July 18. The day before the 19th. "You're right," he said suddenly, nodding his head. "It is an intrusion."
Startled, Angela looked up. "At least you admit it."
"Yes. It's not necessarily bad because the exams can uncover unsuspected problems. But they are irritating."
She glowered at him. "People say you doctors have a secret drug to make patients do what you say whether they want to or not."
Farber laughed out loud. "Is that story still going around? I first heard that hoary tale in medical school. Hypnotism pills would sure simplify things, I'll tell you, but we don't have them. We couldn't keep such a drug secret anyway." He glanced at his watch. Two more patients awaited him today. This introductory phase of the exam was taking too long. Time to move on. "Tell me about yourself." He sighed inaudibly.
"Not much to tell." She again looked down. She was sort of pretty, but her lipstick was smudged, and the dress was too short for her chubby thighs.
"How do you feel?"
"Oh, I'm fine. No problems. My supervisor says I'm too moody," she said.
"Do you think you're moody?"
"No. No more than anyone else. Everyone gets moody sometimes."
He stared at a worn spot on the examining table cushion. Should he bother to have it repaired? "How do you sleep nights?"
Angela frowned. "Usually not too bad."
"Usually not too bad?"
She hesitated. "Sometimes I wake up early and can't go back to sleep right away."
"How long does it take?"
"Oh, not too long. Usually."
"How long?" He stifled a yawn.
She frowned again and looked down. "Sometimes three or four hours."
"Until the alarm rings?"
She nodded, looking miserable, as if she were about to break into tears.
"How often does this happen?" Donald asked as if he wasn't sure of the answer.
The dam burst. "Every damn night," she cried. "I get so angry, lying in bed, another night wasted, and then I'm so tired the next day, and my husband screams at me for being crabby, but who wouldn't be crabby when they can't sleep." Suddenly she looked hopeful. "Doctor, you said you might be able to help. Maybe you could give me a few sleeping pills? I know they're supposed to be bad for you, but maybe for a few nights just so I could get some sleep, I'm sure I'd feel better. I just don't know what to do. Oh, God. Sometimes I can't stand it anymore. I want to cry. I want to run away and never come back. Will it never get better than this? What did I do wrong?" she sobbed, tears streaming down her face, ruining her makeup.
Donald nodded, outwardly with sympathy, inwardly with satisfaction at having found the diagnosis, depression, so easily. Now a quick guess as to why she was depressed. "Does anyone close to you drink?"
"No. Not to excess." She sniffled and looked down.
"Husband?"
"Well, he likes to relax occasionally."
Relax, eh? Bingo. "How does he treat you?"
She looked down and worried a hangnail. "Oh, he treats me fine. Sometimes he gets upset with me."
"Does he shout at you?"
She hesitated. "Sometimes."
"Does he call you names?"
Another dam breached. She looked up and nodded her head, a short, bobbing motion. "He screams at me," she sobbed. "Calls me a bitch and a whore." Tears again flowed.
"Does he ever hit you?"
She took a tissue from her purse and dried her eyes. "Once. He slapped me a few months ago. Said I deserved it." She shook her head. "Maybe I did."
"Had he been drinking then?"
"Yes."
"Any bruises?"
"No. He scared me more than anything else. Afterwards he was real nice for a while."
Physical violence followed by a honeymoon phase. A bad sign. The doctor continued, "How much did your parents drink?"
Again she sniffled and looked down. "My father had a few beers on weekends, but nothing serious. He was a good Dad."
Interesting, no mention of the mother. "Did he beat you?"
"He warmed our behinds occasionally when we were really bad, but not often. I'm sure we deserved it."
The doctor tapped a stylus on the desk, thinking. "Were you ever sexually molested or abused as a child?"
"No. Absolutely not."
Donald favored his patient with a warm, benign smile. He had extracted a lot of information from her, but not everything. No matter. "I think you're depressed. Would you consider psychotherapy?"
She shook her head. "I don't need it. I can handle my own problems."
"Your husband drinks and he hits you. There are self help groups, twelve-step programs for people in your situation."
She again shook her head.
He raised his eyebrows. "It might be worthwhile."
"I don't want to tell my problems to a bunch of strangers," she said with determination.
The doctor had done his job. He had asked the necessary questions and made the recommended suggestions. Now for the final part of the mandatory exam, the part he hated. "Let's have you sit on the examination table and I'll check your heart and blood pressure."
Angela complied. Donald looked at his watch, once more checking the date. Maybe he wouldn't have to do these damned exams after today, in which case it might all be worth it. He stood and approached his patient. But, instead of grabbing the blood pr
essure cuff, Donald reached underneath the brown examination table, took a tiny autosyringe and, with a practiced motion, injected his patient's arm with ten drops of pale yellow liquid.
She turned towards him in startled surprise, her eyes wide open. "What did you just do to me?"
He raised his eyebrows as if puzzled and looked at her for some seconds. "What do you mean?"
"You just gave me an injection. Why?"
Again he waited for a few seconds before answering. "What kind of injection?"
"I don't know, but…" At this point, the medication reached her brain, and her features relaxed, blank and vacant.
"What is your name?" he asked in a friendly tone.
"Angela Lovejoy." The voice was flat, with no emotion.
"Why are you here today?"
"I'm undergoing a mandatory medical examination." Her words now contained no outrage.
"Does your husband drink too much?"
"I don't know."
Damn! He should have known better than to use a judgmental phrase like 'too much'. With Mesmor, he had to be exquisitely specific. "How often does your husband get drunk?"
"Two or three times a week."
"How often does he beat you?"
"Once."
That much, at least, was accurate. "How often did your father