As I ducked out of Exam One my phone buzzed again. It was getting harder and harder to ignore. The text messages were all variations on the same theme. Lucas, call me when you have a break. Call me between rounds. Call your bubbe back already, it’s not nice.
Oh, how I rue the day I taught my grandmother how to text. I thought it would be easier than the constant phone calls, but it was worse—even more constant. She had the tenacity of a seventeen-year-old girl looking for an AWOL boyfriend on prom night. I knew what she wanted. Tomorrow night was my Grandpa Morris’s retirement dinner. He’s been a garment center pattern-maker for seventy-five years. Seventy-five years: a big achievement—record-breaking, I believe. Of course my brother and I were going. But my brother was going with his wife and child, while I barely left the ER long enough for a date, let alone procreation. Becoming a doctor had once cemented my standing as star grandchild, but my M.D. was wearing out its luster with my grandmother. I was nearing thirty, and suddenly the lack of a Mrs. by my side rendered the initials by my name practically inconsequential. My lack of a wife, or even a girlfriend, or even a prospect of either, was the eternal thorn in my bubbe’s side, and reversing this travesty, as she referred to it, was the main purpose of her existence.
“I can’t die till my Lucas settles down,” she’d say.
To which I’d always respond, “If that’s the case, I never will!”
She would shake her head and declare in Yiddish, “Nor a shteyn zol zayn aleyn.” Translation: Only a stone should be alone. It didn’t make any sense to me in either language.
I entered Exam Two for my next patient. A restless young woman and her gum-chewing friend both sat, fully clothed, on the table. I reached out my hand.
“Hi. I’m Dr. Siegel. What and who is the problem?”
The gum-chewer answered for her friend. “We were out celebrating her birthday, and suddenly she couldn’t stop itching.”
Sure enough, the other girl was scratching everywhere she could reach.
“Okay. Put on this gown, open in the front, bra and underwear stay on. I’ll come back in a few minutes. Do you want your friend to stay for the exam?”
“Yes, please—she’s reading me Entertainment Weekly to distract me.”
I ducked outside the curtain and texted my grandmother. What’s up, Bubbe? I typed as the gum-chewing friend continued reading: “Engagements. Maybe you’ll be engaged by your next birthday! Seth got you such a nice gift for this one, and you’ve only been together a short time.”
“Don’t get carried away,” the patient replied. “I mean, it’s an awesome gift, but notice who’s sitting in the ER with me?”
“Good point,” the gum-chewer answered, and continued. “Engagements. Actor Jeremy Madison to wed Bloomingdale’s employee Natalie Canaras. The two got engaged on the R train in Queens after a flash mob he hired performed ‘Your Love Is Lifting Me Higher.’ Onlookers said he got down on one knee and proposed with a five-carat cushion-cut ring.”
“Are you ready?” I called through the curtain.
“She’s good,” the friend answered.
“I swear I think I’d rather have this original Max Hammer than a five-carat ring!” the itchy girl said as I entered the room.
“Ha, I thought I recognized your dress,” I butted in. I couldn’t help it. “My grandfather works for Max Hammer. Well, he did. He’s actually retiring tomorrow.”
“Wow, that’s my favorite designer. I’m getting my master’s in design at Parsons. My boyfriend bought me a dress of his for my birthday tonight,” she said as she pointed to it, neatly hanging on a hanger like a prize. “It’s, like, the dress of the season,” she gushed, momentarily forgetting her itchy agony.
I examined her. Her horrible rash looked like it was roughly in the pattern of the dress.
“I’m sorry to tell you this, but I’m afraid you won’t be wearing that dress again. You have contact dermatitis. There are two kinds, irritant and allergic.” I grabbed her chart as my phone buzzed. I took it out of my pocket just to make sure it wasn’t an emergency. It read, Are you bringing a date to Grandpa’s party?
I groaned. They noticed. The gum-chewer came right out and asked, “What’s the matter?”
I laughed. “Nothing. It’s just my grandma—she’s driving me crazy with texts.”
The itchy girl, who I couldn’t help but notice was quite pretty, thought this was the cutest thing she’d ever heard. I know this because she said, “That’s the cutest thing I ever heard! A grandma who texts!”
“I taught her,” I responded, knowing damn well that that would now be the cutest thing she’d ever heard. I was right.
“Oh my god, you taught her, that is the cutest thing I ever heard!” She smiled through her itchiness. She was a trouper. I looked at the chart.
“So, Samantha Schwartz”—Jewish, I noted to myself, silently cursing my grandmother for brainwashing me—“it says here no allergies. Is that correct?”
“That’s right. Well, never before today,” she added sadly. I could tell that she loved that dress.
“Let’s get you on an IV of Benadryl, then see what this dress is made of.”
The friend held it up. It was the dress of the season. Which I knew only because my bubbe had texted me a picture of it on the cover of Women’s Wear Daily a few months back with the caption, “Grandpa’s going out on top.” I’m usually not this chatty with my patients, especially given the fact that the pretty one obviously had a serious boyfriend, but my grandpa is my idol, and with his retirement imminent I was feeling extra-proud of him and his accomplishments. I took out my phone and found the picture while the nurse set up her IV.
“Look, your dress was on the cover of Women’s Wear Daily!” The itchy Jewish girl—Samantha Schwartz—took my phone. She smiled and handed it to the gum-chewer, who looked duly impressed.
“It’s her dream to be in WWD,” she said.
The Benadryl was delivered and I attached it myself. “This may make you sleepy, but the rash should start clearing up quickly. Now let me take a closer look at this dress.” As I grabbed the dress, a familiar smell hit me. A deeper sniff of the fabric instantly transported me back to my first year of medical school, when we first began working with cadavers. Formaldehyde—not a smell one easily forgets.
“Where did your boyfriend buy this dress?” I asked.
“Bloomingdale’s…I mean, it came in a Bloomingdale’s bag,” she responded tentatively.
I sniffed it again, in a few different spots. “I hate to tell you this, but this dress is covered in formaldehyde.”
Samantha Schwartz immediately threw up at my feet and then began to sob loudly. There was absolutely no consoling her. Her gum-chewing friend explained what Samantha’s boyfriend did for a living and therefore what must have happened. I have to admit, I almost cried for her. What kind of idiot would take a dress off a corpse and give it to his girlfriend? I’ve seen a lot of crazy in this ER, but this may have been the worst.
My phone buzzed once again, and this time I welcomed the distraction. Even if it was my bubbe again.
Luke, If you don’t have a date I know a nice girl, Mrs. Mandelbaum’s niece, who you can bring to the party. I’m worried for you to come alone.
“Is that your bubbe again?” Samantha asked between sobs. She could clearly use some distraction as well, so I told her everything. I smiled. “She’s trying to convince me to bring a date to my grandfather’s retirement party. She says she’s worried about me coming alone.”
The gum-chewer spoke up. “She should be worried. So should you. A nice Jewish doctor going alone to a party that’s probably packed with nosy grandparents of single girls. You’ll be live bait.”
Samantha blew her nose and agreed. “She’s right. Just bring someone—anyone.”
I looked down at her leg. “Look, the rash is clearing up already.”
She smiled. “Thanks…I feel much better.”
“You can get dressed and go…”
We all realized my blunder at the same time: she had nothing to wear but the death dress. I bit my lip. The gum-chewer rolled her eyes, and Samantha started to sob again.
“Believe me, this isn’t the first time an ER patient has had to go home in doctor’s scrubs. I’ll get you a pair.”
As I left I heard her tell her friend, “As close as I’ll ever get to a Max Hammer. And on my birthday. I want to die!”
Should I? I debated with myself. It wasn’t like me, but it was the obvious move here. I took out my phone to text my grandmother back.
If I bring a date, Bubbe. Do you think Grandpa can get me a dress?