We discussed the schedule for the week, including staff meetings and patient progress reports. For someone like me, it was all very logical and simple. I still was unsure, however, how the staff and doctors twice my age would respond to my…well, youthful appearance.
After Shannon took her leave, I sat at my desk, staring at a pile of paperwork, wishing I could feel more excited. This was a big accomplishment, something to be proud of—my parents certainly were. And my best friends, Melody and Sue, were certainly impressed. But like every milestone in my life, I felt little more than like I was checking off boxes while waiting for my real life to commence.
This is your life, Ted. Stop wishing it to be something else.
I grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and started making my action plan for the week. I found lists to be soothing. But only just a little.
#1. Review doctor/patient load
#2. Have Shannon set up one-on-one meetings with staff
#3. Review cash flow with accountant
And…oh!
#4. Talk to Dr. Wilson about Mr. Room Twenty-Five…
CHAPTER TWO
I spent the rest of my first week checking off my list: reviewing the books with Martha, the head accountant; planning my first staff meeting; and scheduling those one-on-ones with the other doctors—schedules were extremely tight, so Shannon was doing her best to clear space. I noted immediately how understaffed we were, and that meant doctors had too many patients. I’d have to cut costs—bye-bye resort-style meditation gardens—and hire additional doctors. Turning away more patients was not an option.
So in the meantime, I would take on a few patients of my own. It was very unorthodox, but it would show the troops I was willing to roll up my sleeves.
Interestingly enough, Dr. Wilson had twice as many patients as anyone else, which was why I had Shannon put me on his calendar late Friday afternoon.
“Dr. Valentine! Come in. Come in!”
I entered Dr. Wilson’s untidy office and introduced myself, thinking how he reminded me of my father. He had thinning gray hair, a round belly underneath his white coat, and large brown eyes. I liked him immediately.
“So,” I said, taking a seat in the black pleather chair facing his desk, “I’ve spent the week evaluating workloads and noticed you have more than your fair share of patients.”
He sat back down behind his desk—a cluttered mess of files and sports knickknacks. “Yes, well, I tend to get many of the patients the other doctors don’t want.”
“That is not acceptable. We don’t get to pick and choose who we help.”
“Not all of the doctors feel they’re equipped to handle every case,” he replied.
They all had general degrees in psychology—same as me. Okay, not the same as me. I had three specialties: neuropsychology, cognitive and neurolinguistics psychology, and psychometric and quantitative psychology. Basically, I was a thoroughbred psycho. (That would be me using my humor there. You see…psycho is short for psychologist, which insinuates that—oh, neverthehellmind.)
“I will correct this immediately,” I said. “In the meantime, I plan to handle a few of your cases. Simply let me know which ones you recommend I take.” I wouldn’t want to undermine any current treatments.
Dr. Wilson puckered his wrinkly lips in contemplation. Behind him sat a wall of medical books that hadn’t been touched in years—probably since the day he started working here. The inch of dust had to be a health code violation, but I would let it slide. Because I was a wild woman. (See. There’s my humor again. I wasn’t wild at all and—oh, forget it.)
“That’s very kind of you, Dr. Valentine. I’ll think it over and give you a list on Monday or Tuesday.”
“Great. Oh, and before I forget, I wanted to ask about the patient in room twenty-five.”
Dr. Wilson sipped from his chipped “#1 Dad” mug on his desk. It was probably filled with vodka. The man had to be under a considerable amount of pressure and seemed suspiciously happy. (That wasn’t a joke, in case you were wondering.)
“Ah, you mean our infamous Mr. John Doe,” he said, setting down his mug.
“But we’re a voluntary treatment facility. John Does—” i.e., people who suffered from amnesia or refused to give an identity “—go to County.”
Dr. Wilson smiled. “Yes, he checked himself in a week ago. Paid for three months of treatments and then asked to be put in a room and left alone until he was ready to talk.”
“That’s insane,” I said flatly.
Dr. Wilson laughed with a husky voice that reminded me of a rent-a-Santa. Ho, ho, ho… “Why, yes. I suppose it is. And what better place for him than here.”
“So the man doesn’t want to be treated, and we have no idea why he’s here?”
“Not a clue. But isn’t it interesting?” Dr. Wilson seemed genuinely excited by this very inefficient use of our facility’s space. I couldn’t understand why.
“He can’t stay. There are people who require our assistance and are being turned away.”