“Well, it’s clearly a complex situation, with a lot of moving parts,” I say seriously. “The solution will likely require collaboration with multiple stakeholders. We could consider starting with a needs assessment.”
Heads nod around the table, and I breathe a small sigh of relief.
“Thank you, Dr. Carlton,” Tara says with a big smile. “Having a surgeon’s perspective is really valuable in this situation.”
No doubt.
The meeting finally ends, and I hustle across the hospital to the clinic. The clinic started an hour ago, and Nick’s been in charge while I was at the meeting.
I find Nick in the office, finishing up a chart.
“Any issues?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “The patient in room five refused to see a resident. She’s waiting for you.”
“Okay,” I reply with an inward groan. Patients who refuse to see residents are usually difficult, so this is unlikely to be a fun encounter.
My gaze drops to a cookie tin on the counter, beside Nick’s elbow. The tin is powder blue with white polka dots, and there’s a blue card taped to the lid with my name on it.
I open the envelope and pull out the card, which bears the following message:
Dear Dr. Carlton,
Thank you for taking such good care of me.
Yours truly,
Claire Thompson
“They’re peanut butter pretzel,” Nick informs me, gesturing to the cookies. “Kind of a weird combination, but they’re good.”
“What room is she in?” I ask him abruptly.
Nick’s brow furrows. “Who?”
“Claire Thompson,” I say impatiently. “The girl who brought the cookies.”
“Oh, she’s gone already,” he says casually. “She’s doing really well, so I discharged her from the clinic.”
“What?”
Nick looks taken aback by my tone. “I didn’t know you wanted to see her,” he says defensively. “I examined her myself, she was fine.”
“Okay.” I force myself to smile at Nick. It’s not his fault; as a senior resident, he has the authority to send patients home if he thinks I don’t need to see them. He had no way of knowing I’ve been waiting all week to see Melissa.
To soothe my disappointment, I take a cookie from the tin and take a bite. There’s nothing weird about the combination of peanut butter and pretzel. It’s inspired.
“Okay,” Nick says warily. “Uh, room five? They’ve been waiting for a while.”
“Right.” In my opinion, patients who refuse to see residents deserve to wait. On the other hand, the longer they wait, the more miserable the encounter is likely to be. I scarf down the cookie and pull up the chart on the computer.
As it turns out, Mrs. Meecham in room five is a sweetheart, a shy seventy-two-year-old who was diagnosed with colon cancer last week. It’s her daughter who’s the problem.
“Can you guarantee there won’t be any complications?” her daughter asks, after I spend ten minutes explaining the surgery and the potential complications. Clearly I was wasting my breath.
I bite back the urge to retort that any doctor who guarantees there won’t be complications from a procedure is either a liar, an idiot, or both. It’s just not how medicine works. “I’m afraid every surgery has some risk of complications,” I say instead.
The daughter frowns and uses her middle finger to push her glasses higher on her nose. I’m not sure if she’s trying to make a point or if she’s just oblivious. “Well, we’ll need some time to think about it,” she says.
