Medical Maggots

The bus is running late, and I get the woman at the desk who insists on asking tons of questions about whether I’ve traveled overseas (“Since I was here four days ago?”) or had any medical procedures done outside the confines of the continental United States (“Since I was last here… which was, again, four days ago?”). She always apologizes and says she knows it’s silly but she has to ask these questions, except that she doesn’t, because none of the other receptionists do. 

Regardless, I end up being fifteen minutes late for my appointment, and the first thing out of KC’s mouth is “Well, that’s pretty disrespectful. Now I see how little we mean to you.” Between being late, and pleasantly surprised to see her, I’m too flustered to come up with any snappy rejoinders. 

She closes the curtain behind us and then it’s just her and I; none of the other nurses come to help. They may be doing this to give us some time alone, but I more likely it’s because none of the other nurses like her all that much. Or so I gather; none of them have ever said as much, but they drop hints here and there, mostly in regard to her distractedness and lack of thoroughness in her tasks. Possibly they are jealous that all the male patients fall for her. But then, she’s the only single one working at the clinic. 

She is certainly distracted today, talking a mile a minute about nothing in particular, and while I’d like to think it’s because she’s sweet on me, there’s really no evidence to support that. She flirts with every guy who comes in here, there’s no reason to think I’m special, though I am younger than most of those guys. She complains all the time about not being able to meet anyone.

It’s been a full month since I’ve seen her, and she looks especially pretty. Her red hair is shinier than I’ve ever seen it, perhaps freshly colored, though I can’t tell if it’s natural or not. She has a nice body, though her breasts are too small and her ass too big for her to be really gorgeous. She’s five years younger than I, and the laugh lines around her eyes crinkle up endearingly when she smiles, which is often. 

I ask her about the stray that had been visiting her condo, and she whips out her phone to show me photos, as well as a Facebook post she found identifying the owner. “That little bastard has been playing me!” She has a cat already, named Cathy. She shows me a picture of Cathy and the stray, whose name is Ghost, glaring at each other. 

“Now I haven’t done this for a long while,” she says as she turns on the saw. I laugh. “Oh, I guess that’s not what you want to hear,” she laughs. She’s left handed, and twists her arms awkwardly trying to cut the cast, until I contort myself in the chair to give her a better angle. “See, I barely even cut you,” she says when she’s done. She takes an instrument like a giant pliers and pries apart the two halves of the cast. She then pulls off the cotton batting and bandage and throws them on the floor. Just then Gladys comes in. 

“Are you just going to throw that shit on the floor?” she asks. Then she leaves us alone again. KC asks how work is going and I tell her. I don’t think she’s ever been to the art museum. 

It takes an inordinate amount of time for her to measure my wounds, take pictures, and soak them in Lidocaine, a local anesthetic, which they always do even though it’s unnecessary since I don’t feel anything in my feet. She measures the original wound and says, “Ooh, it’s so small,” then laughs. “Sorry, I guess that’s something else you don’t want to hear.” I tell her I’m used to it. She says that not only is the wound smaller, it looks just about healed over. 

She says she just took a week off and when I ask her what she did, she says she just stayed home with Cathy, had wine with the two old ladies next door who have more or less adopted her. “They kept me up till ten!” she says.

Dr. Rochelle finally comes in, strangely subdued. She was like this last week as well, and I chalked it up to the heat. She doesn’t seem as drained this week though, and chatters on pleasantly and laughs at my usual stupid jokes. But she’s not manic or loud. I wonder, not for the first time, if she has a mood disorder she takes meds for. Not that I’m judging. 

She’s very pleased by how my feet look, and doesn’t do any work on me. “I’m going to have to find some new things to try out on you to keep you from leaving us,” she says. “How about medical maggots? I just watched a video.” She tells me about how maggots are being used to eat infected tissue, since they only eat dead tissue, leaving the living flesh alone. “It works amazing, apparently,” she says. “They're really efficient. But I already get shit from the other departments every time they see a fly in the building, they say it’s because we’re using maggots. Which we aren’t.”

“Not yet,” I say.

“Not yet,” she agrees, and her eyes gleam. 

She leaves so KC can prepare the casting materials, and once again, it takes an inordinately long time because we keep talking. She says she’s been watching a documentary series about the history of warfare through the ages. She’s gotten interested in the Normans, the Iliad, the Crusades. This is a side of her I’ve never seen before; I got the idea she mostly liked watching rom coms. “Well, Josh Brolin narrates it,” she yells. "TEN!"

Finally she calls Dr. R. who comes back and puts the cast on with her help. I tell her about my experience with Dr. Ronda. “It’s interesting how different her technique is,” I say.  “Not bad, just different.” I tell her what Dr. Ronda said about being particular and she laughs.

“We come from totally different places,” she says. “She worked in an OR where she was used to ordering people around. I was in the ER where it’s every man for himself. That’s why I love it here, people actually help you.” She gazes fondly at KC, whose roll of casting has just slipped out of her hands and plopped into the bucket of water. 

It’s well past five by the time they release me; I’ve missed my usual bus. I ask KC if it’s weird that I miss the hyperbaric chamber so much. She tells me it’s common, that people get really attached to the experience. "It really becomes a family," she says. I want to say something about missing her as well, missing her ponytail and cackle and the way her scrubs hug her hips. 

“See you next time,” I say. 

It’s 98 degrees out when I roll into the sunshine. It feels refreshing; I hadn’t noticed how chilly it was in there.