The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [8]
October 6
The week before the ribbons go up, Julianne Havelock walks into Examining Room Two where Paisley is waiting to have her pre-op workup for bunion surgery. She isn’t expecting anything unusual. Julianne has worked for the same podiatrist for six years, ever since she got her nurse-practitioner degree. By now she’s done so many of these histories and physicals that she’s a wiz at spotting a bad cold or other condition that might make surgery risky. These are elective operations, after all, and if there’s the least question about the patient’s health, the surgery can be postponed.
She opens the door and finds, as always, that Paisley looks beautiful enough to make Julianne’s heart skip a beat, as it did even when they were younger and her admiration was tinged with envy. Paisley’s tennis tan still glows golden even though it’s October. Her hair is ruffled but stylish, a little damp. Julianne pictures her jumping out of the shower, dressing quickly, finger-drying her hair in the car. Her short dark locks shine.
“So you’re having bunion surgery,” Julianne murmurs as she checks Paisley’s chart. “What made you decide?”
Paisley holds out her right foot, where a good-size bunion has begun to push the big toe to the right. It’s not pretty, but Julianne has seen worse. “Does it hurt?”
“No, but my tennis game is off, and I think this is the culprit. It’s gotten so that I have to buy shoes a whole size wider. It’s great for the right foot, but it makes the left foot slosh around so I run like a gimp.”
Julianne smiles at the idea of elegant Paisley as a gimp. “Even with your foot sloshing around, I can’t imagine you clumsy.”
“You’d be surprised. Sometimes I have the sense to buy two pairs of shoes in two different widths, but do I remember to wear the right size on the right foot? No. I’m always rushing out of the house thinking of ten other things. I figured if I have the bunion removed now, Mason can take off on Columbus Day, so I get an extra recovery day not to cart the kids around. Then I can take a break from tennis over the winter and by spring I’ll be a whole new person.”
“A whole new person?” Julianne arches an eyebrow. “I thought the old person was doing all right.”
“Oh, she is. She is.” Paisley laughs. “And how is this old person doing?” she asks, shifting the focus to Julianne. “I can hardly believe Toby’s a senior this year. And you. Do I sense wedding bells in your future?”
“Bite your tongue, Paisley. Everything’s on hold until Toby starts college. Right now we don’t broach the subject even in the smallest whispers.” It’s interesting how patients will try to change the subject, even patients who aren’t also neighbors. Nerves, Julianne thinks. Anyway, she’s not ready to make wedding plans, much less discuss them. “Now. Tell me. How are you feeling?”
“Okay except for a touchy stomach. I had an ulcer years ago and sometimes it comes back full force in the fall. I don’t know why. Usually it bothers me for a couple of weeks and then goes away. I wonder if it’s scientific to have ulcers only with the change of seasons.”
“Who knows?” Julianne says. “I’ll check out the literature. Have you seen your doctor for this?”
“Not yet.”
“I bet you already know the standard advice. Bland foods. No hot spices. Be careful what you drink.” It’s been years since Paisley lived next door to Julianne on Dogwood Terrace, before the Lamms moved to the larger house up on Lindenwood, but in those days the weekly overflow of bottles in the recycling bin showed that Paisley liked her liquor. Even now, at parties, she always has a glass in her hand. “Do you know that some studies show cooked cabbage can heal an ulcer?” she asks.
“Oh, Lord. I think I’d rather suffer!”
“Or it could be a bacterial infection and you need an antibiotic. Most ulcers are caused by bacteria.”
“I’ve read about that.”
“Here. Lie down. Let’s check out the sore belly.”
Over the years, Julianne’s hands have learned to palpate and probe so skillfully that she tends to close her eyes and let the organs beneath yield up their secrets like words in Braille.