Chapter 5 – The Doc III

I sourly drank my espresso the next morning. Why can't I ever get anything right? Edith had been chatty and flirty, bumping against me time and again, reaching across me as we sat at table next to one another to review her turgid document. And of course, there was the open wine bottle.

She poured out two glasses, but I demurred imbibing.

She playfully poked my side. "Oh, now you are too good to drink?" She gulped a large swallow from her glass.

"You know that I don't."

"Right. Now you don't. I remember a time that you were no stranger to the grape," she protested.

"And it made me do stupid things." I stood and moved the extra and untouched wine glass to the sink.

Edith laughed. "Oh, and not just the drink either, was it?" She came up behind me and tried to rest her chin on my shoulder, but I stopped that by stepping to the side.

I turned to see her giving me a strange look. "It was a long time ago, wasn't it?" she snickered.

Why did Edith persist in mentioning that? I was the one who wanted to be married, and despite almost three years of a sexual relationship, she coldly laughed at my proposal. "Oh, Martin, dear sweet foolish Martin, I'm going to Canada. How can I do that with you hanging on to me?"

Years and years later here she was sitting in my house and playing up to me. "Edith, I am willing to review your presentation, so let's crack on, shall we?" I glanced at my watch. "It is getting late and I have patients to see in the morning." I just as soon forget our past bedroom liaisons.

She rolled her eyes at me. "Yes," she moaned, "and you mustn't be late to peer into wax-filled ears and probe the scaly recesses between toes overrun with Athletes Feet," she finished sarcastically. She returned to the table and began to pack up her papers with jerky rapid movements. "Another time, perhaps."

I felt a pang of regret for treating her so. "Send me your changes by email, and I'll look them over."

Edith snapped her manuscript case closed, the clasp making a razor-sharp sound. "Goodnight, Ellingham," she said coolly.

I walked her to the door and she left without a backwards glance.

So, the next morning I swallowed the last of my espresso, and grimaced. The coffee was good, but I was in bitter mood. I had been curt with both Edith and Louisa, needlessly. I was pushing Edith away just as much as Louisa pushed me away.

Yet there had been the handclasp across the kitchen table with Louisa. Surely that must mean something. She was the mother our baby and I the father. Come what may that child was stuck with he two of us.

Was Edith trying to rekindle our ancient romance? She had been wearing fragrance last night, and it was obvious that her blouse was unreasonably too tight. And her little touches and strokes. I was noty interested in her that way, not anymore.

But was it the females in my life that were the problem? No. It wasn't them; it was me that was the problem. I still gagged when I saw blood, and that was what unsettled me. Edith had passed on the message that there was a job waiting for me in London, if I wanted it. Did I want it? Get away from the village of the damned? Go back to surgery?

Want it? I reviewed the days schedule while I ate my egg, and it was boring. Well-child checkup, fever, coughs, and lurky. A report of chest pain which was probably indigestion or reflux, and then throw in a likely urgent situation such as an imbedded fishhook, sprained ankle, or poke in the eye. Such was the GP's life, yet I was performing a service to this backwater. Not all my time was wasted, but there were times I sincerely wanted something else.

Yet the thought of cutting into breathing human flesh could make my innards churn.

I cleaned my dishes, straightened the kitchen, and then went upstairs to complete my morning routine. I was back downstairs when Pauline rushed in, late as always.

"Doc," she muttered as she flung her large handbag on her desk.

"Morning, Pauline."

She busied herself switching on the office computer. "Looked at the schedule for today?"

"Yes."

"The usual," she replied. Then the office phone rang. "Portwenn surgery!" she said into it after scooping it up. "Hello. Yes. He's right here." Then she addressed me. "Your Aunt."

"I'll take it in my consulting room." I closed the door behind me as this was likely a personal call.

"Hello, Joan," I said after lifting the handset.

"Marty. It's me. Well you know that. Uhm, have a minute?"

"Yes. Just."

"I hate to bother you, but, I may have a problem."

"What's wrong?" She probably had another overdraft. "Tell me."

I heard her sigh deeply. "I've been having, oh you'll think I am being silly. But sometimes I get rather dizzy."

"When? Standing, walking, sleeping, or sitting? Or is it when you change position, such as when arising from bed after sleep? Or during exertion?"

"Not all of the above, but just now I bent over to feed Buddy, filling his food bowl. And when I stood up straight the room spun around. Thought I would collapse for a minute. So, I'm sitting down now."

"Is your pulse racing at all?"

"Not that I can tell."

"Nausea? Shortness of breath? Or do you see dark or light spots in your vision?"

"I saw a bright few spot when I stood up straight. None of the rest, though. I assume that is good news."

"Any weakness in hands or feet. Fainting? Pains in arms or back? Shoulders? Neck?"

"NO, Martin. Only the dizziness… and the spots, briefly," she protested.

"I'll be there in twenty minutes. Stay seated and put your feet up! Goodbye." I slammed down the phone. "PAULINE! Cancel my morning patients for the next hour and a half!" I got my bag and went out the door while Pauline spluttered about how inconvenient it was for her to make those phone calls and how she was not at all happy to rearrange my schedule.

In eighteen minutes flat I was examining my aunt. Her color was good, nailbeds were pink, no blueness about the lips, and her pulse was normal. Blood pressure was slightly elevated though. "I don't see anything remarkable," I told her. Take off your shoes and socks, so I can examine your feet and ankles.

There was no puffiness of her feet. No edema and that was good. "You can dress your feet now."

She shook her head as she put socks and shoes back on. "Just me being a silly old woman, then? I know what I felt, Martin."

"Positional hypotension." I checked her heart sounds once more. Nice and steady; no murmurs or clicks. "Have you been eating well? Sometimes dehydration can cause these things."

"I have," she said. "No doubt if I could lose half a stone it wouldn't hurt."

"Yes, at your age… uhm, that would be prudent."

She gave me an unhappy look. "And thanks for that."

I stared closely at her. "Joan, I'll want you to be keep a record of any more of these incidents. Plus keep a record of your diet. And call me if they happen again. Promise me you will."

"My diet?"

"It may have some bearing. In the meantime, try to reduce your intake of salt and fats. I will take a blood sample to send off to lab."

Joan rolled her eyes. "Anything else?" she asked frostily.

I took the blood sample things from the bag. "Roll up your sleeve." In a moment I had the sample but had to look away as the red fluid surged into the tube. I slapped a plaster across the cotton ball I held over the vein puncture inside her elbow.

Joan shook her head. "Still have a problem with the blood, I see."

Ignoring her jibe, I packed up my bag and rose. "I'll call you with test results. I think it's best to have you come in for a full exam next week."

"That's it?"

"Until I know more."

"And how are you otherwise, nephew?"

I checked my watch. "Joan, I've no time for a chat. Must see my other patients."

Joan looked at me with a slight sneer. "Busy man."

"Yes," I said, and almost stepped on her dog. "OHHH! God!" It woofed and scurried under the table as I flailed my foot at it.

"It's just Buddy, Marty. He lives here as well," she admonished me.

I went to the door and looked back at her. Joan was rolling down her sleeve. Her hair was all white now; had been for three years. And Phil, well Uncle Phil was dead for ages; motor neuron disease was not pretty as an end. And yet here Joan was, active in the community, a helper with all the village fetes; generous with time and talent (she had no money) to local causes. My heart sank. Why was so I rubbish with women? Even to my aunt?

"You must come to supper," I told her.

She brightened. "That would be nice. I could fix…"

I cut her off with a wave of my hand. "No. I'll cook. Fish? You must get sick of mutton and chicken."

She smiled. "Done. When?"

"How about Thursday? Six o'clock?"

She pursed her thin lips. "I'll have to check my social calendar."

"What?" What was she asking?

"Of course," she laughed. "That will be nice." She looked around her tidy kitchen. "Nice to get out."

"Fine." I took hold of the doorknob.

"And how is Louisa Glasson? Have you seen her? Recently?"

I tugged on the door and stepped out. "See you on Thursday," I told her. I closed the door on her gaping eyes.