“I was taking notes for your medical chart, Mrs. MacTavish. That’s standard procedure.”
“Dr. McKinnon never needed a computer. He knew me. He knew I drink my tea at exactly four o’clock, that I hate pink pills, that my Arthur died five years ago and I’ve lived alone ever since. He knew everything.”
The guilt hits me like icy water.
I should say something. Apologize. Show empathy. That’s what they teach us in medical school—listen to the patient, not just the symptoms.
But the words lodge in my throat, same as always.
“I understand that this transition may be difficult,” I finally manage. “Dr. McKinnon was your physician for a long time. But I’m here now, and I can assure you you’ll receive the best care possible.”
She sniffs.
“The best care possible,” she repeats. “You young city doctors all sound the same. Everything’s ‘protocol’ and ‘procedure.’ But you don’t know how to actually see people.”
I clench my jaw and wrap the cuff around her arm, maybe a little more roughly than necessary.
“If you could remain quiet during the reading, please.”
The silence that follows is about as comfortable as hugging a cactus. I listen to her heartbeat through my stethoscope, counting silently.
One forty-five over ninety-two.
Too high.
“Your blood pressure is higher than it should be,” I say as I remove the cuff. “Are you taking your medication regularly?”
“Every morning with my porridge. Same as always.”
“We may need to adjust the dosage. I’m going to prescribe?—”
“Dr. McKinnon said stress was what raised my blood pressure. He told me to drink chamomile tea, take evening walks, and avoid talking to people who irritate me.”
The look she gives me makes it very clear which category I belong in.
I close my eyes for a second. Count to three.
“Chamomile tea is excellent for relaxation,” I agree, “but it doesn’t replace antihypertensive medication. At these levels, your blood pressure puts you at serious risk for cardiac complications.”
“See? That’s exactly what I mean. You don’t see. All you see are numbers and risks. Dr. McKinnon saw me.”
Something inside me cracks.
Not violently. More like a fracture spreading slowly through glass.
“Mrs. MacTavish, I am not Dr. McKinnon. I will never be Dr. McKinnon. But I am a competent physician trying to do his job.If my presence bothers you that much, you’re free to see another doctor.”
The words come out sharper than I intended.
Moira MacTavish’s face hardens like stone.
“Oh, I can see exactly what kind of doctor you are, Dr. McLeod. The kind who has no business practicing in a village where people actually know and care about each other.”
She stands, trembling with either anger or outrage—I’m not sure which.
“I think this appointment is over.”
“Mrs. MacTavish?—”
