After Hours (InterMix)(71)
I knocked on the heavy oak door of his office, and it opened shortly.
“Good morning, Miss Coffey.”
“Good morning, Doctor.” We’d never been formally introduced, so we shook. He cut an impressive figure, tall and rigid, with authoritative, extra-white streaks at his temples. His shake was firm.
“Come on in and I’ll give you the rundown.”
His office was far tidier than Dennis’s, lined with books and books and more books.
He said that a psychiatric intern and I would be in on the interview. I flushed with pride to hear I was being offered the same experience as a medical student. We weren’t to say anything, except to explain who we were, if the patient demanded to know. Other than that, we’d just observe, and take our best stabs at diagnosis and suggesting treatment once the interview was over.
“I know you’re only an LPN.” The way he said it, I knew Dr. Morris wasn’t trying to be a dick about it. Not like, I know you’re only a lowly LPN with some piddly certificate from a no-name technical college. More like, I know this is the deep end and you didn’t sign up for it. Don’t panic. “But Jenny said you’re looking to continue your education, so this might be a useful peek at what goes on, behind the scenes.”
“I’m sure it will be. Thanks for even inviting me, Dr. Morris.”
Jenny had told me once, toss the docs’ titles at them in conversation, any chance you find. It’s courtesy, of course, but it’s also currency. They can’t get enough of that, she’d said, like we were talking about dogs and belly scratching. Think of it as an investment in your career. Kiss a little doctoral ass, and it’ll pay off when you need an emergency consult someday. Let them think you worship that white coat. It must have been working for Jenny. She was a regular puppeteer when she wanted something for the ward and its residents. Or for her colleagues, it would seem, if my invitation to sit in today was her doing.
“So.” Dr. Morris opened a folder on his desk, tapping the stack of forms with a pen. “Patient is thirty-two, long history of violence, multiple convictions. Drunk and disorderly, assault and battery, breaking and entering . . . Every unsavory ampersand combo you could want. Latest and most credible diagnosis lands him on the psychotic end of the schizoaffective rainbow, with some major and long-lasting mixed and manic episodes. Multiple voluntary drug treatment programs—for cocaine mainly, plus alcohol, and a botanical garden’s worth of cannabis, which never plays nice on that spectrum. Oh and meth, one conviction.”
I shivered at meth. The closest thing the human race currently had to a zombie plague.
His gaze zigzagged down the page. “Five voluntary programs, to be precise, and exactly zero completed. Not a finisher, shall we say. History of violence with treatment facility staff.” Dr. Morris smiled wanly at me like, Oh goody! Lucky us. “Bit of a pharma cocktail, both prescribed and recreational. Though his outbursts seem to have lessened greatly since he’s been treated as a schizoaffective case.”
“That’s good.”
“He was interviewed during an emergency hold following an assault, and the doc there wants him with us, instead of prison. Patient doesn’t relish either option, but who would?”
A knock came at the door behind me and Dr. Morris boomed, “Come in.” I swiveled as a gangly young African American guy in a white coat entered the room. He smiled at me and adjusted his glasses, and pulled over a second chair.
“Erin Coffey, this is Darius Flowers, my talented new victim from CMED. Coffey and Flowers,” he mused. “Charming. Darius, Erin’s one of our newer LPNs, with an eye on earning her BSN. She’ll be sitting in as well.”
We shook.
He rewound the spiel and briefed Darius about the incoming patient. We both nodded like babies watching a yo-yo, and I caught myself thinking, I could’ve been a med student. I was studious, and had managed strong grades even with all the drama I’d had going on through my certification, plus I had a pretty high tolerance for blood. All I was lacking was the huge wad of cash, and the nuts to cut the cord with my sister. I wouldn’t hold my breath.
“I think that’s enough of my yammering,” Dr. Morris announced, getting to his feet. “The admission interview will teach you more than this stack of papers ever could.” He shut the folder and we followed him out of his office, waiting as he locked it.
He led the way. I hardly spent any time on S1. It was mainly the psychiatrists’ domain, and while the nurses from the locked ward were often in and out, conferring about residents, orderlies and techs and junior staff like me received most of our information secondhand.