“Ask him, Maggie May.MakeCash tell you. I think—”
I don’t get any further. Cash throws open the door to the doctor’s office and motions us inside with a portentous, “Time to face the music.”
I help Maggie stand, and she doesn’t let go of my fingers once she’s up. Instead, she drags me into the office, taking Cash’s hand in the process. By the time we’re arranged in front of the doctor’s desk, we’re a united front.
“Seems you have a couple of good people on your side, Soldier,” the physician says with a smile.
“I do, sir.” Cash nods.
“Please. Take a seat.” The doctor motions to the three chairs he’s placed in front of his desk. Two are leather and look like they belong here. One is plastic and obviously came from the hallway. The nameplate on the physician’s desk reads, “Dr. Henry Beckett.”
Naturally, Maggie chooses the chair in the middle, leaving Cash and me to flank her on either side. Once we’re settled, Beckett (who looks kind in his wire-rimmed glasses and thinning white hair) folds his hands and leans forward across his desk. “I hear you’re both worried about Sergeant Armstrong’s pain levels,” he says.
“We’re worried he chooses to combat his pain levels with Gentleman Jack,” Maggie counters.
I bite the inside of my cheek. Oh, Maggie… Wonderful, tell-it-like-it-is Maggie.
Beckett rubs a hand over his chin and sighs wearily. “Head injuries, and the pain that comes with them, are unique in the world of medicine.”
“Shouldn’t he be taking medication instead of drinking?” Maggie demands.
“Ideally, yes. But Sergeant Armstrong tells me the pain medications make him sick and woozy and unable to function in daily life.”
“So trynewones,” I say.
Beckett opens the file on his desk and scans the contents on the first page. “We’ve tried them all. The next step in pain management would be to hook him up to a morphine drip, but then we’d be talking about a quality-of-life issue. Meaning, he wouldn’t necessarily have one. If he’s able to combat the worst of the pain with a little whiskey and still live a full life, then I can’t in good conscience tell him what he’s doing is wrong.”
“Fine. Great. He’s making his brain feel better, but he’skillinghis liver!” When Maggie throws her hands in the air, I can tell she’s as flabbergasted as I am. Are we really sitting here listening to a medical professional tell us it’s okay that Cash gets shithoused most days of the week? “Let’s get out of here,” she says. “We obviously need a second opinion.”
“Wait.” Cash lays a hand on her arm when she tries to stand. Then he nods to Beckett. “Go on, Doc. Get him on the phone.”
Beckett picks up a handset and dials a number. “Hello? Yes, please connect me with Dr. Corbin Winthrop’s office.” He waits as the connection is made. Then, “Dr. Winthrop? This is Dr. Beckett over at the VA. Would you mind if I put you on speakerphone?” He nods and presses a button. “Okay, Doctor, you’re on. Please, introduce yourself to our listeners.”
“Hello.” A tinny-sounding voice issues from the speakers. “I’m Dr. Corbin Winthrop, head of the Neurology Department at Tulane University Medical Center.”
Maggie flicks me a quick glance, a question in her eyes. I shake my head. No, I didn’t know this was going to happen.
“Dr. Winthrop, you’ve seen Sergeant Armstrong’s scans,” Beckett says. “What is your professional opinion concerning his pain management?”
“Given you’ve already tried the arsenal of prescription opioids,” Winthrop says, “I’d say anything Sergeant Armstrong can do to give himself relief is reasonable.”
My stomach drops.
“Well…that’s just…ridiculous,” Maggie sputters. For a while after that pronouncement, silence rules the room. Then, her voice more measured, she suggests, “What about surgery? Maybe that bioabsorbable whatchamacallit that’s in there is causing the problem.”
“I’m afraid surgery won’t help.” There’s not an ounce of wiggle room in Winthrop’s voice. “I agree with Dr. Beckett that Sergeant Armstrong’s best course of action is whatever helps him cope.”
I can’t believe I’m hearing this. “You’re telling me youagreeCash should carry a flask in his back pocket and stay good and buzzed most days and flat-out drunk others?”
“No.” Winthrop is quick to naysay me. “That’s not what I’m suggesting at all. A nip to take the edge off the pain is one thing, since the meds don’t seem to help. But getting drunk and dealing with the side effects of dehydration and a hangover are whole other issues. We’re talking about quality-of-life here. It seems to me there’s a middle road of moderation.”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this.” Maggie echoes my earlier thoughts.
Again, silence…
“Thank you, Doctors.” Cash stands. “I appreciate your candor today.” He looks down at me and Maggie. “So? Can we get the hell out of here or what?”
