Cooties

I recoiled.  As the blind patient thrust his right hand forward, expecting me to catch his grip to steady him and prevent his most certain fall, I recoiled.  And not in the way normal people do, backing up ever so discretely.  No.  As his hand came towards me, flailing haphazardly in great arcs through the air in front of him due to lack of visual direction, I recoiled in that exaggerated Matrix kind of way.  My arms circumscribed circles on either side of me, like backstroking standing up while my back arched impossibly backwards before running to the 85 year old patients side and saving myself from, well...cooties.  That's the technical term for it--cooties.

I had walked into the room about thirty minutes prior and greeted both patient and daughter with a hearty handshake and a pleasant, "Hello, what are we doing for you today?"  The visit had proceeded without incident.  It was just a routine check up.  His blood pressure had finally gotten under control.  Cholesterol was a little on the high side, so I increased his statin dose.  But I was pleased with his level of diabetic control.  I listened to his heart and lungs, checked his feet for possible ulcers.  I wrote out the order for a pneumonia vaccination and, in his case, had no need to refer him for an annual diabetic eye check with an ophthalmologist.  The diabetes had taken his vision years before.  

I closed out his chart on the computer and asked, "So have we taken care of everything today?"  I expected nothing more than to set up a follow up appointment in three months, but was surprised to find the patient asking his daughter to excuse herself and wait outside.  He had a "personal question to ask the doctor."

At one point or another, all of my male diabetic, hypertensive and hyperlipidemic patients ask family to excuse themselves.  And as I re-opened the chart and began to type in the prescription for Viagra, I was, once again surprised.  

The complaint wasn't erectile dysfunction.

He stated clearly and without hesitation, "For the last month, every time I scratch my balls, my fingers smell."  And before he had even completed the sentence, he had risen from his wheelchair, dropped his pants, lifted his scrotum, exposing the undersurface with his left hand, and scratching several times with his right hand as though he were playing a skin cello.

And sure enough, after he felt he had performed his mini sack concerto for a sufficient period of time, he brought his fingers to his nose--to his fucking NOSE and said "see."  As though the demonstration was necessary for me to believe his claim.

He extended his hand out to me, and maybe it was because he was blind.  Or maybe it was because of the diabetes associated nerve damage, but he began to lose balance.

And that's how we get to me doing my best Keanu Reeves impression.  

It all happened so quickly that I'm not sure if he was aware of my avoidance.  Of my sudden not being where my voice was only a second ago.  Of the sound of my dress shoes rapidly clip clopping on the hard examination room floor.  Of how I suddenly reappeared right behind him, supporting his back, avoiding his hand, and gently assisting him to his wheelchair. 

I'm not sure what it's like to be blind.  I've heard that all the other senses are augmented to compensate for the loss.  Not in this case!  Man did not take the hint, cause as I wished him and his daughter well at the completion of the visit, he still stuck his hand for a goodbye handshake.

I just patted him on his back.

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