CHAPTER 2
“It’s just a sprain,” Dr. Sanders said, slipping the X-ray back into its folder. “You need to be more careful, though, Birdie. You’re not a spring chicken anymore.”
“You’re not a spring chicken, either, my dear,” Birdie Snow snorted. John Sanders had been Birdie’s doctor most of her life. He’d been fresh out of residency and new to her parents’ doctor’s practice when she’d switched over from the family’s pediatrician. At the time, Birdie had felt a quiet pride in being the handsome young doctor’s first patient, and through the years, she’d wondered if the teasing relationship they’d always shared might’ve blossomed into something more if David hadn’t come into her life.
“Indeed, I’m not,” John said with a chuckle. “I’ll be seventy this year . . . and I’m going to retire.”
“You are?!” Birdie sounded horrified.
“Yes, I might even see if I can find a girl to marry. I think it would be nice to have a little companionship in my old age. I’ve always wanted to travel, and it would be more fun with a companion.”
Birdie didn’t even hear his last sentence. She was too busy feeling as if the rug were being pulled out from under her . . . again! She’d always appreciated that her doctor was growing old alongside her, and she fully expected him to be there till the bitter end. It never occurred to her that he might retire. And as far as finding a girl to marry—that was an entirely different subject . . . and a frivolous one at that. “You can’t retire! Who’s going to take care of me? My ailments are only going to get worse, and I definitely won’t be able to trust some young, new whippersnapper who doesn’t know my history.”
“Yes, you will,” John said, slipping a blood pressure cuff on her arm. “I’ve got a fine young man lined up, too—Dr. Joshua Hart. He’ll be starting next month and we’re planning to have an open house so everyone will have the opportunity to meet him. Besides, Birdie, you have my cell phone number, so if something serious comes up, you can always call me.” He put his stethoscope under the cuff and squeezed the bulb. “You’re the first patient I’ve told,” he said, eyeing her, “and I’d like to be the one to tell my other patients, too.”
“Don’t worry, John,” Birdie said with a sigh. “I’ll take your secret to my grave, which will be a lot sooner now.”
“No, it won’t be,” John countered, looking at her chart. “Let’s see, you’re going to be sixty-seven next month.” He looked up. “And you’re already retired, I might add.”
“Semi-retired,” Birdie countered. “I’m still very involved in Cornell’s bird count, feeder watch, nest watch, and tracking snowy owls on the Cape in the winter, as well as continuing to serve as director emeritus on the ornithology board.” She paused. “Not to mention helping David rehabilitate all the orphaned and injured birds that somehow find their way to our house.”
John smiled as he wrapped an Ace bandage snugly around her swollen ankle. “You’re as busy now as you’ve ever been, Birdie, which is wonderful, but your blood pressure is still elevated—one sixty over a hundred—and with your family history, you need to do a better job of keeping it under control.” He secured the bandage. “Have you been taking your Lisinopril?”
“Yes, yes,” she said, waving him off. “Even though I hate taking pills.”
John eyed her skeptically. “There are other ways to lower your blood pressure. . . .”
“I know, I know—I could lose some weight. You don’t need to remind me.”
“That’s one way,” John agreed, “but it would also help if you cut back a little on the red wine.”
“Ha!” Birdie snorted. “Did David tell you there was more to my sprained ankle than just tripping on the rug? Because if he did, I—”
“Not at all,” John said, holding up his hand in defense of his old golfing partner.
“Good! Because he’d be in a heap of trouble, and besides, I just read an article that sang the praises of red wine. Not only is it good for your heart, but it lowers cholesterol, helps prevent cancer, and staves off dementia.”
“That may be true,” John said, although he wasn’t entirely convinced by the recent studies trumpeting the health benefits of red wine, “but that’s only when it’s consumed in moderation.”
“I hardly ever have more than one,” Birdie said, feigning innocence, even though she knew John knew better—after all, they traveled in the same circles.
John raised an eyebrow. “One glass . . . or one bottle?”
“Ha!” Birdie said, reaching for her crutches. “You know, maybe it is a good thing you’re retiring. You’re getting awfully fresh in your old age.”
John put his hand on her shoulder and looked in her eyes. “Birdie, you know I love you, and I know the curves life’s thrown your way, but it’s not worth risking your health over. You have a lot of life left to live.”
Birdie knew John had her best in mind. “We’ll see,” she said, looking away. “Now, do I get anything for pain?”
“I thought you didn’t like taking pills,” he teased.
She eyed him and he chuckled.
“For a sprain you can just take ibuprofen every four to six hours and make sure you keep your foot elevated. Remember R.I.C.E.—rest, ice, compression, elevation?”
“I remember,” she said gloomily.
“Good,” John said, opening the door. “And you also need to remember that anything stronger than ibuprofen will not mix well with alcohol.”
“You take the fun out of everything, you know that?” she said, trying to maneuver the crutches.
“Don’t hurt yourself on those,” he said, reaching out to make sure she didn’t fall.
“Don’t worry, I’m fine,” she muttered. “For an old hen.”