“Hello, Mrs. Whittle,” he said in his best bedside voice. “What seems to be the problem today?”
“Where’s Doctor Jim?” she asked, nervously gazing at the door and then back toward Dylan.
She was the third or fourth patient so far who hadn’t been happy to find themselves shifted into his care. Dad’s patients loved him, and with good reason. Dad was so lovable.
Him, not so much.
He was determined to earn their trust. But Ginny Whittle was going to be a hard one, precisely because she’d been on a medical odyssey, searching for relief and never finding it. He sized her up and jettisoned the notion that her symptoms were somatic. She had lost weight since her last visit, and that wasn’t in her head.
He continued to make eye contact. “I know it’s stressful to be shifted off to the new guy in town, but my dad is cutting back on his hours because he’s getting married. So he asked me to take over your case.”
“How old are you?”
People asked him this question all the time, even though he was thirty-one and had graduated from med school with honors. He’d given some thought to growing a beard, but people didn’t like bearded doctors. And they certainly didn’t like doctors who showed their annoyance. Med school had insisted on hours of doctor-patient training, so he’d mastered the art of the impassive stare even though he was weary of having his competency endlessly questioned.
“I’m old enough to be board certified,” he replied. It wasn’t the funny comeback Dad might have used to defuse the situation, but Dylan sucked at that sort of thing.
Mrs. Whittle sniffed and crossed her arms over her chest. “I see you didn’t get your father’s charm.”
“What can I do for you today?” he asked again.
She leaned back in the chair and begrudgingly described symptoms that might have been a urinary tract infection or possible signs of diabetes. She complained of thirst and also of frequent trips to the restroom.
He glanced down at her paper records, irritated that Dad had yet to digitize his practice. Maybe now was the time. If Dad was going off with Brenda for a month, Dylan could install a new data system for the practice. Ginny Whittle’s file was a mess, filled with pages and pages of symptoms and tests. They’d done a blood sugar test within the last six months. It had come back normal, so the thirst was probably not diabetes.
But what else could it be? He was stumped.
He chatted with her for a few more minutes, maintaining eye contact and using language that wasn’t filled with medical jargon. At every turn, Ginny Whittle questioned his wisdom and the competency of every doctor she’d seen in the last few years. She was angry and unpleasant, but then again, his intuition said that she had a right to be.
“I’m going to do my best to figure out what’s going on.”
Her shoulders slumped as he explained the tests he was going to order for her. He decided that he would move heaven and earth to find a diagnosis for her. But telling her that wouldn’t win her over.
Words were cheap. Mrs. Whittle needed action.
He didn’t blame her for leaving the office in a grumpy mood. She’d probably tell all her friends that young Doc Killough wasn’t nearly as good as his old man. But it didn’t matter. He was on her side.
Toward the end of the day, as he was sitting in his office rereading Mrs. Whittle’s voluminous case file, Dad strolled into his office and took a seat. “So I heard you ordered a bunch of tests for Ginny Whittle.”
Great. Dad wanted him to take over the case, but here he was second-guessing him. “You think I shouldn’t have?”
“It’s a pretty big expense for her.”
Dad was right. But dammit, if Dad wanted him to take over this case, he needed to let him take over.
“She wasn’t happy to see me instead of you.”
“So you ordered these tests to get on her good side?”
So much for that lame excuse. Maybe he should challenge his father’s assumptions about Mrs. Whittle. “Something is wrong with her,” Dylan said, capturing his father’s gaze. In the year Dylan had been sharing a practice with his father, Dad had never once called a diagnosis into question.
“She’s had all these tests before.”
“I know, but—”
“Well, let’s hope her insurance company doesn’t balk.”
“Yeah, let’s hope,” he said, covering his annoyance. Dad had this way of knowing all the details about his patients, even their financial situation. Dylan didn’t understand how or why Dad let himself get so involved with the people he cared for. Getting involved could be emotionally draining.
And in this case, maybe Dad had missed the truth because of his emotional involvement. But Dylan didn’t want to pick a fight, so he let it slide and changed the topic of conversation.
“By the way,” he said, “I had dinner with Ella last night.”
“Oh, good. So you apologized?”
“Yeah. We’re all good. We’re working together on the party, which I know will make you happy. Speaking of which, I need an estimate of the number of guests you plan to invite. We were thinking about scheduling it at the yacht club.”
“The yacht club would be perfect. You think they still have space on such short notice?”
“I checked. There are a couple of evenings available. We aren’t going to get a Friday or Saturday.”
“That’s fine. Let me talk to Brenda, and I’ll get you the list tomorrow.”
“So you don’t think Brenda will have a problem with the yacht club?” he asked.
Dad shook his head. “No. Why?”
“No reason. Just trying to make your bride-to-be happy.”
Dad leaned forward a little. “I’m sure she’ll be very happy when I let her know that you and Ella are working together on this. That’s
