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Read Ebook: An Ounce of Cure by Nourse Alan Edward
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An Ounce of Cure
The doctor's office was shiny and modern. Behind the desk the doctor smiled down at James Wheatley through thick glasses. "Now, then! What seems to be the trouble?"
Wheatley had been palpitating for five days straight at the prospect of coming here. "I know it's silly," he said. "But I've been having a pain in my toe."
"Indeed!" said the doctor. "Well, now! How long have you had this pain, my man?"
"About six months now, I'd say. Just now and then, you know. It's never really been bad. Until last week. You see--"
"I see," said the doctor. "Getting worse all the time, you say."
Wheatley wiggled the painful toe reflectively. "Well--you might say that. You see, when I first--"
"How old did you say you were, Mr. Wheatley?"
"Fifty-five."
"I guess I haven't," said Wheatley, apologetically. "I'd been feeling pretty well until--"
"Well, of course--"
"One toe," said Wheatley. "The little one on the right. It seemed to me--"
"I thought so! Heart pound when you run for the subway? Feel tired all day? Pains in your calves when you walk fast?"
"Uh--yes, occasionally, I--" Wheatley looked worried and rubbed his toe on the chair leg.
"You know that fifty-five is a dangerous age," said the doctor gravely. "Do you have a cough? Heartburn after dinner? Prop up on pillows at night? Just as I thought! And no checkup for ten years!" He sighed again.
"I suppose I should have seen to it," Wheatley admitted. "But you see, it's just that my toe--"
Wheatley looked more worried than ever. "There must? I thought--perhaps you could just give me a little something--"
Wheatley wiped his forehead. "I--dear me! I never realized--"
"Perhaps you could take my blood pressure, or something," Wheatley offered.
"This is my toe?" asked Wheatley, edging toward the doctors. It seemed he had been waiting for a very long time.
"Toe! Oh, no," said the red-headed doctor. "No, that's the Orthopedic Radiologist's job. I'm a Gastro-Intestinal man, myself. Upper. Dr. Schultz here is Lower." The red-headed doctor turned back to his consultation with Dr. Schultz. Mr. Wheatley rubbed his toe and waited.
Presently another doctor came by. He looked very grave as he sat down beside Wheatley. "Tell me, Mr. Wheatley, have you had an orthodiagram recently?"
"No."
"An EKG?"
"No."
"Fluoroaortogram?"
Presently two of the men nodded, and one walked over to Wheatley, cautiously, as though afraid he might suddenly vanish. "Now, there's nothing to be worried about, Mr. Wheatley," he said. "We're going to have you fixed up in just no time at all. Just a few more studies. Now, if you could see me in Valve Clinic tomorrow afternoon at three--"
Wheatley nodded. "Nothing serious, I hope?"
"Well--I--that is, my toe is still bothering me some. It's not nearly as bad, but I wondered if maybe you--"
Dawn broke on the doctor's face. "Give you something for it? Well now, we aren't Therapeutic men, you understand. Always best to let the expert handle the problem in his own field." He paused, stroking his chin for a moment. "Tell you what we'll do. Dr. Epstein is one of the finest Therapeutic men in the city. He could take care of you in a jiffy. We'll see if we can't arrange an appointment with him after you've seen me tomorrow."
Mr. Wheatley was late to Mitral Valve Clinic the next day because he had gone to Aortic Valve Clinic by mistake, but finally he found the right waiting room. A few hours later he was being thumped, photographed, and listened to. Substances were popped into his right arm, and withdrawn from his left arm as he marveled at the brilliance of modern medical techniques. Before they were finished he had been seen by both the Mitral men and the Aortic men, as well as the Great Arteries man and the Peripheral Capillary Bed man.
The Therapeutic man happened to be in Atlantic City at a convention and the Rheumatologist was on vacation, so Wheatley was sent to Functional Clinic instead. "Always have to rule out these things," the doctors agreed. "Wouldn't do much good to give you medicine if your trouble isn't organic, now, would it?" The Psychoneuroticist studied his sex life, while the Psychosociologist examined his social milieu. Then they conferred for a long time.
Three days later he was waiting in the hallway downstairs again. Heads met in a huddle; words and phrases slipped out from time to time as the discussion grew heated.
"--no doubt in my mind that it's a--"
"But we can't ignore the endocrine implications, doctor--"
"You're perfectly right there, of course. Bittenbender at the University might be able to answer the question. No better Pituitary Osmoreceptorologist in the city--"
"--a Tubular Function man should look at those kidneys first. He's fifty-five, you know."
"--has anyone studied his filtration fraction?"
"--might be a peripheral vascular spasticity factor--"
After a while James Wheatley rose from the bench and slipped out the door, limping slightly as he went.
The room was small and dusky, with heavy Turkish drapes obscuring the dark hallway beyond. A suggestion of incense hung in the air.
In due course a gaunt, swarthy man in mustache and turban appeared through the curtains and bowed solemnly. "You come with a problem?" he asked, in a slight accent.
"As a matter of fact, yes," James Wheatley said hesitantly. "You see, I've been having a pain in my right little toe...."
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