Patients

Mrs. Lonogan's clacking tongue preceded Rory around the small town he found out quickly. It wasn't long before he was receiving dinner invitations from every family with a daughter of marrying age. He was regularly presented with cherry cobbler and not a dot of soda bread insight. He hadn't been taken with any of the girls so far, but he was happy that he wasn't being left totally to his own culinary skills.

Once he had the surgery in order, he repainted the sign to be hung out front and posted his office hours at the post office and the main shops in town. His first few days on the job, he had a flood of people in the waiting room. Many he suspected were there more to gawk at the new doctor than for any legitimate complaint. His most interesting patient had been an old man of close to eighty years old. His daughter who was close to sixty brought him in.

"Da says he wants more of that tonic the last doctor gave him. It fixed him right up. Felt the best he has in years," Cloda O'Sullivan informed Rory.

"Just let me collect your father's previous file," Rory said.

He returned to his desk with the folder.

"Tell me Mr. O'Sullivan, what are your current symptoms."

"He wants to know how you feel now," his daughter yelled in his ear.

The old man was obviously hard of hearing.

"Poorly, poorly same as always," Mr. O'Sullivan replied.

"Any pain, Mr. O'Sullivan?" Rory shouted.

"Same as always," was the reply.

"Perhaps I should examine your father, Miss O'Sullivan," Rory said.

He shooshed Miss O'Sullivan back into the waiting room and conducted a thorough exam of Mr. O'Sullivan. Other than some arthritis Rory couldn't find anything wrong with the man. He suspected he would live another ten years at least.

"Have you been eating well?" Rory shouted.

"You don't have to shout, sonny," Mr. O'Sullivan said. "I can hear you just fine. I let my daughter think I can't hear so I don't have to listen to her nattering."

"Mr. O'Sullivan, I can't find anything wrong with you, other than some arthritis which is common for a man of your years. Other than keeping the joints warm in cold weather there is nothing I can prescribe for you."

"The last fellow gave me a tonic. My daughter doesn't approve of whiskey. Half a glassful of that stuff a day fixed me right up." Mr. O'Sullivan winked.

Rory consulted the last man's notes to stall for time. He wasn't sure how to tell Mr. O'Sullivan he was a doctor not a barkeep. On the last page of the file the last man had left a note. Give him a quart bottle of whiskey in a medicine bottle once a week or they will be back every day to pester you until you give him his tonic.

"One moment Mr. O'Sullivan," Rory said. He went through into the dispensary, retrieved a large jar of treacle from the shelf and poured a large medicine bottle a third full. To that he added a good half bottle of whiskey and filled the rest with water. He shook the bottle thoroughly until the concoction was mixed.

"Here you go Mr. O'Sullivan. This should fix you right up. I suggest you take it in the mornings or you won't sleep that well. You may find this tonic gives you more energy. I've put the directions on the bottle."

The old codger paid his bill and headed out the door with his "tonic" firmly in his grasp.

"Good God almighty, what next" Rory said before he called the next patient.

Four days later Cloda O'Sullivan was back.

"I'm surprised to see you back so soon Miss O'Sullivan," Rory said as he showed her into his office.

"Whatever did you give to my father?" Miss O'Sullivan questioned. "He's turned into a lunatic. He's found himself a girlfriend and has her sleeping over at our house."

"Miss O'Sullivan I can assure you there was nothing in that tonic that would cause your father to act in any particular way. It was a placebo, in lay terms that is a sugar drug. It has no medicinal effect other than to make the patient think they are receiving treatment when they are not. There is nothing physically or mentally wrong with your father as far as I can tell."

"Well there must be something to it. He can hear every word that's said right as rain. His hearing wouldn't just improve overnight."

"Perhaps you had best speak to the village priest," Rory suggested with a deadpan expression. "It could be a miracle."

Miss O'Sullivan perked up.

"Oh Doctor, you must be right. I'll go to the church immediately and prey that my father is put back to rights this instant."

"That is most likely your best option."

Once she had left the office, Rory poked his head out into the waiting room.

"I'll just be a moment," he said.

He rushed out back to the stand of trees behind the cottage and doubled over laughing for the next five minutes.

As a country doctor Rory's biggest problem was his lack of transportation. It would only be a matter of time before an accident occurred or the weather got cold and he would have to make house calls. There wasn't an automobile in town, which presented the issue of how to get enough fuel and maintain a car. He decided a saddle horse would be the best option. He decided to ask Mr. Lonogan's advice as to where to purchase one, as the Lonogan's seemed to be the best-informed couple in town. Mrs. Lonogan was a gossip, and Mr. Lonogan wasn't much better. Rory suspected a few well-placed words and he would have his pick of mounts within a few days.

He walked up to the hotel after office hours and found Mr. Lonogan tending bar.

"Dr. Lester, how are you keeping?" Mr. Lonogan inquired. Rory wondered if his wife had somehow rigged the bar telephone as a listening device.

"Just fine Mr. Lonogan. Call me Rory. Dr. Lester makes me think there is some old codger by the same name waiting to pounce."

"All right then Rory, what can I do for you?"

"A Guinness, for one thing and I was wondering if you knew where I might be able to purchase a horse."

"What type?"

"One I can ride."

"Not picky on type then?"

"Sturdy, reliable, fast enough the person I'm going to see doesn't pass on before I get there."

"You leave it to me," Mr. Lonogan said. He spotted his wife coming out of the corner of his eye. "The fish were biting over towards Listowel yesterday and they were so big they almost took a man's arm off."

Mrs. Lonogan heard her husband's tall tale and turned around to head upstairs.

"That was a close call," Mr. Lonogan said. "Did you fancy any of those girls she set up for dinner invitations yet?"

"No, not yet," Rory said.

"Too bad."

"Not really, but I am getting sick of cherry cobbler. I wish someone would make a chocolate cake once in a while."

Rory quickly learned it was the wrong thing to say, as the next three dinner invitations he was promptly presented with chocolate cake.