Muriel Ledbetter wasn’t having a good morning. At eighty-six, the ratio tilts. Statistically, mornings begin defecting. Her arthritis had declared sovereignty. Her knees crackled like cellophane. Her lumbago had returned with theatrical spite. She had a 9:20 at the health centre Mercy comes in appointments.
At 9:03 a.m., Dr John sat in Consultation Room 6, steeping in the velvet afterglow of a freshly self-administered 3 ml shot of pethidine.
“Let those kind waves break on me,” he whispered. He buttoned his cuff with ceremony and dropped the syringe into the yellow hazardous waste box. The room grew benevolent. The carpet tiles forgave him. Even the computer hummed in sympathy. He stood, briefly nautical, and removed the chair braced under the door handle—a small but necessary security measure. He restored it beside its twin at the desk, squared his shoulders, and clicked open the file: Earl, Peter E. DoB 1957.
Medical records are autobiographies written by entropy. Childhood: the usual microbial pageantry, plus bonus diphtheria, glandular fever and four months of viral meningitis, an overachiever in suffering. Adulthood: seven accidents. Wrist fracture. Ankle sprain. Assorted contusions falling from a ladder. Dislocated shoulder. Eighteen stitches courtesy of a circular saw and optimism. Another ladder slam. And solvent toxicity due to inhalation of spray paint in an unventilated shed. “What a catastrophically assembled man,” John murmured, pleasantly afloat.
Then the list tightened: Anal polyps. Gastric drip. Septic toenail. Deep vein thrombosis. Hernia. Varicose veins. Recurring herpes zoster. The human body as grievance archive.
Three polite taps. The door opened like a reluctant grey wound. Mr Earl shuffled in; bent, papery, supported by an aluminium tripod walking aid that inferred both recovery and surrender. “Good morning, Mr Earl. How are we?” Peter Earl lowered himself into the chair with the sound of upholstery reconsidering its life choices.
“It’s the shingles again, doctor. Feels like ants under my skin. Like I’ve been set alight. And it’s weeping.” John nodded with curated sympathy. “I haven’t seen you before,” Mr Earl said.
“I’m covering Dr McKay.”
“Holiday?”
“In a manner of speaking. Clearing landmines in Laos. The man is a saint, a true humanitarian.” John had no idea where McKay was. Possibly Tenerife. Maybe dead or struck off. John hadn’t a clue and couldn’t care less.
“Let’s take a look,” he said brightly. “Up you pop on here, off with your shirt and let’s see what’s going on.” Gloves snapped into place. Another wave passed through him, turning the fluorescent lighting warmly devotional. Earl removed his shirt. Then his trousers. He perched on the examination table, his trousers sagging at half-mast.
John looked.
Jesus Christ… he thought. Jesus fucking Christ. I’m not touching that. The man resembled a badly monitored lobster. His torso was an atlas of scorched reds and blistered pinks. Beneath the Y-fronts spread a moist geography of purple, weeping indignation. John did not move closer.
“Have you been abroad, Mr Earl?”
“Benidorm. Last May.”
“Did you drink the water?”
“Yes.”
“Eat the food?”
“Some paella. A sausage.”
John inhaled gravely.
“Please get dressed.” He returned to his chair and steepled his fingers—always effective.
“I’m afraid this is not shingles.” Earl blinked.
“It isn’t?”
“No. While we’ll need a biopsy for confirmation… this presents as wet leprosy.” Silence expanded.
“Leprosy?”
“Yes. Rare. Aggressive. Moist.”
“People still get that?”
“More than you’d think, particularly after foreign travel. Chorizo is a known vector.” Earl’s mouth opened and closed with slack futility.
“What do I do?”
“For now, go straight home. It’s extremely contagious. We cannot have a Midlands outbreak traced to Room 6.” John lowered his voice. “You’ll need to speak to your wife. Isolate. Prepare emotionally. I’ll refer you urgently to dermatology and tropical diseases. If it becomes… wetter… before then, see Dr McKay. He returns Wednesday.”
When Mr Earl left, he seemed partially erased. John opened the notes field. Diagnosis: Contact dermatitis secondary to biological detergent residue. Repeated exposure. Observation: Spousal hostility probable. He leaned back.
“Benidorm,” he muttered. “The Costa del Consequence.” He clicked for the next patient. Ledbetter, Muriel C. DoB 1939. He checked the time. 9:19. He considered another 3 ml negotiation with God.
Image Credit: Lucas Santos / Unsplash
