“NOW HOLD STILL, sugar. We just want to make sure one of those cuts doesn’t get infected,” says a kindly horse-faced nurse, Miss O’Brien. She’s holding the largest needle I’ve (probably) ever seen. I’m dressed in a cloth gown, sitting on a chilly metal examining table in the third-floor infirmary’s procedure room. Its walls are tiled in green, giving it a vaguely morgue-y feel.
While she gives me the tetanus shot, I scan the room for possible weapons. But anything of use has been safely secured in its drawers and cabinets.
As the nurse puts a Band-Aid on me, a short doctor in a white coat enters. He wears a headband with a little round mirror attached to its front like a cartoon doctor.
“Dorothy, I’m Dr. Sackler. My, aren’t you pretty,” he says, looking me over. Guess that’s a gold star on the looks portion of the medical exam. “Dr. Sherman’s spoken to me about your case. So I hear you’ve been having a little trouble remembering things, aren’t sure if you bumped your head?”
“No, I’m completely sure. It happened on the transport bus. Then that creepy attendant, Lester, knocked me out, so that’s two concussions in under an hour—”
“I see someone’s been busy playing doctor,” he says, chuckling and patting my leg. “But before you make your diagnosis, how about I take a look?” I nod to the cartoon doctor, and he says, “Tell me if anything I touch hurts,” as he begins probing my scalp with his hands. “Have you felt any symptoms from these concussions of yours?”
“Yes. A throbbing pain in my ears. And they were ringing. Still ringing,” I tell him.
“Well, that’s not good, is it?” Dr. Sackler says absently, then turns to his nurse. “No obvious signs of swelling or injury to the head, other than the facial contusions and bruises.” While Nurse O’Brien jots a note in the chart, the doctor points to a picture on the wall of a Dalmatian in a fireman’s hat. “Now, I need you to look at the funny dog for me while I examine your eyes for signs of concussion.”
I stare at his hilarious dog while the doctor shines a light in my eyes. “Dr. Sherman told me about last night,” he says, looking extra hard at me as he moves the light to my other eye. “Sounds like you got a little carried away in all the excitement.” Sherman’s shared the story of my little come-on to him last night with Dr. Sackler. Looks like nurses and patients aren’t the only sources of gossip at Hanover. I don’t respond to the doctor’s fishing expedition, and he returns to the eye exam. “There’s a slight difference in pupil size,” he says to the nurse. “Nothing significant.”
“It must be from whatever happened to me on that bus,” I say, but he just smiles politely. “If you don’t believe me, run tests. Do a … a…” And I rack my brain for the name of the test I mean.
But Dr. Sackler’s moved on—to the small, round, divot-like scars on my arm. He flips down his mirror thing, reflecting the light from the lamp and throwing them into high relief. “Possible puncture … or burn marks.” He and Nurse O’Brien exchange looks.
“Those aren’t important—” I start to say, but the doctor interrupts. He’s spotted something else.
“Hmm. Dried blood in the ear. Hold still, Dorothy,” he says, and I listen to his slow, steady breath as he peers for a long moment into my right ear with his little light, then repeats the exam on the left. “No sign of infection—yet both eardrums have recently been perforated. Violently. That would explain the auditory distortions and the blood.” The doctor exchanges another look with his nurse, then puts his hand on my knee. “Did you put something into your ears, Dorothy?”
“No! I would never hurt myself,” I say, moving my knee out from under his hand. “It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, I was injured on the bus!”
“Okay, that’s fine, Dorothy,” he says, and gives me a smile and a nod. Smile-nods, I’ve noticed, are used by Hanover staff to avoid all manner of tears and trouble. They make the patient feel good about what she’s just said—or done—when maybe she shouldn’t be so proud. A participation trophy handed out by the face.
Nurse O’Brien pulls two metal levers from the end of the table and unfolds them. Each has an oblong ring on its end.
“Dear, I’m gonna need you to slide your fanny down here and lie back, so we can have a look,” the doctor says.
“Why?”
“Just a brief exam. Dr. Sherman wants you to have a full workup, make sure everything’s in working order before deciding on the best therapy for you.”
“What kind of therapy?”
“I’m sure he’ll have that discussion with you when the time comes,” he says, taking a seat on a rolling stool.
Nurse O’Brien puts a tray holding a beak-shaped metal instrument on a nearby rolling table, then flicks on a bright standing lamp. “Nothing to be afraid of, sugar. You’ve most likely had an internal exam before. Come, scooch on down.”
Do I have a choice?
When my butt’s hanging just off the end of the table, she lifts my feet up and onto the cool metal rings, then drapes a sheet over my knees, blocking my view. “Good girl,” I hear Dr. Sackler say through the sheet. “Now take a deep breath and try to relax while I insert the speculum.”
I hear the pieces of the thing clanking together. Feel the cold metal slide in, then the pinching pressure stretching my insides apart. As he ratchets the metal blades farther and farther open, there’s a sense of air reaching places it’s not meant to. When the metal has brought me several degrees beyond comfortable, I hear a click and feel the vibrations of a nut being spun and tightened to lock it like a tire being changed.
The sensation of hardware acting upon flesh at my core is unnerving—but familiar. The horse-faced nurse was right; I’ve definitely had an internal before. Dr. Sackler brings the lamp closer, and I feel its radiating warmth as it lights me up brighter than a prison yard during a jailbreak. He peers around for a long minute, very quiet, then unlatches the speculum and withdraws it.
“Okay, all done,” he says, popping back into view. Then he turns to Nurse O’Brien and says a little sourly, “Let Sherman know he can have his sign-off.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It means everything’s looking just fine, Dorothy,” he says, smiling. “You’re in tip-top shape.” Then he turns back to Nurse O’Brien, now lowering my legs. “Is there a directive on file for her?”
“Not that I know of,” the nurse says.
“Let’s find out. Definitely something that should be taken into consideration.”
“A directive?” I ask.
“Just some housekeeping,” he says, “one of several forms that needs updating to ensure you’re getting the proper care. Nothing you need to worry about, Dorothy.” He stands, then pulls off his thick brown rubber gloves and picks up the file. “We don’t want your records to be incomplete, now, do we? You can go ahead and get dressed,” he says, and exits.