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If I had to guess, sprained ankle.
Can I just keep walking? Pretend I don’t see them?
Obviously not, but man, I wish I could.
I unlock the door, slip inside, and put the pizza in my office. No need to show them there’s food here. It’s not for them. It’s for Sage.
The buzzer rings and I go back to the door to let them in.
Three kids talk at once. “She twisted her ankle.”
“We were practicing the kick line.”
“Everything was fine until that last leap.”
The only one staying quiet is the girl they’re supporting, and she’s so quiet I worry she’s in shock. At least I know I can help with that.
“You want a wheelchair?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Can they come in with me?”
Generally I don’t let my patients bring their friends to an office visit, but I’m thinking maybe it can help move this along. Get me out of here and into the library.
“Sure,” I say. “Come on back.”
The friends drag-carry her into the exam room, and one of them kind of shoves her up onto the table while another gets her out of her coat.
The girl hands me her Chamberlain ID card and I slide it into the reader on the desk. It’s a slick system, and it pulls up all her school information as well as her medical history.
Frances Guilford. Franny. Sophomore.
“Okay, Franny. How about you tell me what happened?”
Now that her coat is off, I can see her T-shirt: navy blue with bright pink glitter letters that spell out “Spare me the Drama.”
Of course. Theater kids.
“We were at rehearsal,” Franny starts. One of her friends immediately cuts in.
“For the winter show. We’re doing a revue, spelled R-E-V-U-E instead of R-E-V-I-E-W, which is kind of a greatest hits thing from a bunch of musicals. See, the narrative is different from any of the shows, but all the music ties in with a new story line.”
As if maybe I had asked, this kid goes on in great detail to explain the history of musical theater, revues, and how they’re different from skits, what makes a song a good choice to include, and on and on. The worst part is, she doesn’t take a breath. It’s like she’s learned this monologue and she’s going to perform it. Right now. For me. No matter what.
When she finally stops for air, I turn to Franny. “And you were dancing?”
Another of the friends steps up. Literally. She stands on the footrest at the edge of the exam bed and sort of bounces there on her toes as she takes over the musical theater history lesson and talks about the seven different styles of dancing they’re incorporating into the show. I’m so thrown off, I don’t know how to interrupt.
I just stand there and nod. It’s like I’m under water, but the water is student-delivered useless information. And it’s flooding in here and I don’t know what to do about it.
The third friend isn’t talking, and I’m grateful for his silence until I notice that he’s walking the perimeter of the room touching everything. Everything.
He’s got the blood pressure cuff in his hands and the pulse-ox monitor on his finger. He puts those down and picks up the otoscope and one of the disposable covers. I try to ignore him as he moves to the drawers and opens them, picking up a swab, a bandage, and a tongue depressor. I’m going to have to throw away everything in the whole room.
And if I ever had a class or a lecture or a great example of how to talk over a group of high school drama kids and a lurking friend with a sensory processing fetish, I don’t remember it.
Remember those heart-eyes thoughts I was having about babies a few hours ago? I changed my mind. Kids are the worst, especially in groups. And since Lana had twins, odds are that I would, too—or worse, triplets. I shudder at the thought.
I’ve had these kids in here for—I check my watch—fourteen minutes and I haven’t even heard more than a sentence from the actual patient.
