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“Hey Alisha. This is Doctor Jason Hill. He’ll be joining me today. Your dad in?” Simmi smiles brightly.
A flash of fear sprints across the girl’s face at the mention of her father and her body language becomes immediately defensive.
“Gosh, aren’t you getting hot in this?” Simmi asks, using it as an excuse to build a rapport.
“Sure, and no.” The girl tugs down harder on her sleeves. “He’s been a little out of it since yesterday,” she said in the same monotone she used moments ago.
“Another attack?”
I let Simmi to do the questioning.
The girl nods. “He’s in the lounge.”
“Dad, Simmi and the new doc have come to see you.” The girl’s body language changes and matches the hesitance in her tone.
“New doc, eh?” Mickey waves from his well-worn recliner.
The man who is not much older than me looks sixty. Dressed in worn jeans and a stained singlet, he could use a bath, just like his daughter.
The furniture, curtains, and carpet are worn through but clean. The house is tidy, and all the windows open with a fresh jar of wildflowers taking center stage on the six-seater dining room table over to the left of the lounge.
“Afternoon, Mr. Zerwick.” I reach out a hand. “I’m Doctor Jason Hill, but please call me Jay.”
Simmi mentioned his parents immigrated from Poland to Australia when Mickey was only six months old. And like his parents, Mickey holds a healthy suspicion of politicians, but unfortunately, also one for doctors. Best to take a more relaxed approach.
Mickey’s head wobbles on his neck as his hand go up instead of towards mine. I adjust my aim and mange to grip it.
“Simmi give up on me, eh?” He shakes my hand.
The man’s grip is weak and his palm sweaty. I shift my index finger, so it slides over the inside of his wrist. It’s an old trick I learned back in my student days. Not a definite measure, but it always gives me a good indication of the patient’s pulse.
“I might be pushy, but I’ve never been fickle, or a quitter, Mickey.” Simmi strides in, Mickey’s daughter behind her.
From the expression on her face, I can tell she is as worried about the daughter as she is about Mickey. The teen lowers her gaze and presses with her back up against the wall on the far side.
Mickey grunts as he stands. “Alisha,” He turns his head up as though he is looking for her in the sky, “Go get our guests something to drink.” His voice is harsh, and he waves her toward the kitchen. She cowers and her mouth trembles. The tick becomes more noticeable.
Simmi may not have been able to pinpoint the dynamic, but it screams domestic violence to me. I’d seen so much of it in the rural areas of South Africa that it stands out like a neon light when I do come across it now.
But unless I have proof, making an accusation like that would be catastrophic without evidence. Instead, I return my attention toward the intended patient.
I make sure to watch every movement Mickey made. The doctor who’d diagnosed him when he’d been flown to Bundy was way off, but I can see why. So many symptoms mirror those of other syndromes and disorders. But one thing, that unless one has actually treated it, is noticeably clear. It is not MS.
Mickey stumbles, then straightens, his eyes roving over the surrounding area. “Alisha, Goddammit, why did you move the bloody table so far away?” he yells.
The girl runs to the entrance connecting the kitchen and the living area. “Pappa, I didn’t.” She gives Simmi a sad glance.
I indicate to Simmi to do nothing when she makes to step toward the patient and assist.
Mickey shakes his head and closes his eyes, then, like a blind man, feels his way over to the table and a chair. “So, doctor?”
His large gray eyes home in on me.
“What do you think it is? Madness perhaps?”
“No, I do not.” I take a seat at the table.
“Drink?” Mickey waves toward the tray his daughter places before us, his hand shaking.
