Page 11 of Saving Wyatt

I pulled up his file on my laptop and went through his diagnosis and prescription, although I was pretty confident I remembered his details.

Even if I thought I knew everyone by heart, it was the proper process to check their files and ensure the medical advice I gave was accurate.

"I see. I'm really sorry your symptoms are getting worse, Mr. Rogers. What would be your ideal outcome today?"

Mr. Rogers licked his lips and smiled. "Well, ideally we'd get rid of this arthritis and I would never need to deal with it again, but I know you're not a miracle man. Can't you increase my prescription? The pills were working for a while."

I pursed my lips and shook my head. "I'm afraid we'd be risking kidney failure if I increased your dosage. I think your body's tolerance has increased, which is why they're not working anymore. We have other courses of pain management, but I'll need to monitor you more closely because they also carry risks. Tell me, Mr. Rogers, how is your mood?"

"My mood?" The man seemed taken aback by my question.

"Is the pain affecting your mood daily? Do you feel demotivated or stressed?"

Mr. Rogers cocked his head. "No more than usual. If only I could sleep at night I'd feel better."

I nodded. "Any history of mental health issues in your family, like bipolar disorder?"

"Why are you asking this?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

"I just need to establish some history because the next step is an antidepressant that's been proven to help with arthritis, but it can trigger certain episodes, especially to those who are struggling with their mental health."

He shook his head. "Oh, no. I don't have anything like that."

Of course he would say that. It was the norm, with the elderly especially. Mental health wasn't in their vocabulary. It was stigmatized even despite all the work that we'd been doing as doctors for years to destigmatize mental health.

It was even more important to monitor those people who might not recognize the symptoms of their own mind, or ignore them in favor of more physical ailments.

"Now, it might be a little intense at first, but you have to stick with it for a couple of weeks before you see results, all right?" I listed some of the side-effects to look out for and instructed him when to stop and seek my advice, and we rejoined his little excited dog outside.

"Such a good boy," I told him and allowed myself to get down on my knees and play with the little rat of terror.

"Prince is the best boy," Mr. Rogers said. "I don't know what I'd do without him. And without you."

I turned to look at my patient and smiled. "Oh, stop it, Mr. Rogers. It's just my job."

"Yeah, and I'd probably be pushing daisies if you hadn't set up shop here," he said and pointed to the van.

"Well, we're going to make sure that doesn't happen for a long time while I'm here, all right, Mr. Rogers?"

He chuckled and untied his dog from the hook and looked at me.

"You're a godsend, Dr. Ari. Godsend."

The poor man. As if it wasn't enough that he was still dealing with the grief of losing his wife, he had to run his business despite his old age. The man could barely walk, let alone drive, which was how he’d ended up at my van in need of my services, and he wasn’t even the worst of my cases. There were so many people here that couldn’t afford their premiums, that couldn’t afford prescriptions, that couldn’t afford to live a healthy life.

I patted Mr. Rogers’ hand and offered him my biggest smile.

"Say, when are we going to meet your wife?" He looked down at my wedding ring, and it took me by surprise.

"Husband, actually. He...he's away," I said, a lie I’d practiced in the past four years.

It was too hard to say the truth, even to myself. That Evan was dead and I was nothing more than a widower.

"Still. Gotta come home sometime," he said.

I bit back a tear and kept the smile on my face. "Maybe. Someday," I said. "How did you even know this was a wedding ring?" I held up my right hand and showed it to Mr. Rogers.

"What else would it be?" He chuckled.