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One thousand and twenty-six words today, and here they are:
The good doctor was right, as it turned out. Two hundred and thirty-five years after her last doctor visit, and not much had changed. There were still medical histories to take and forms to fill out, and the doctor still hunkered on his stool and examined her as though she were a priceless artifact. He held her soft-skinned, eggshell feet in his hands and scowled at the faint blue tinge to her flesh, and he poked the soles of her feet with needles to determine sensation and reflexes. He pursed his lips and rolled her ankles and her wrists, and he ordered her to lie back on the bed while he palmed her feet and pushed her knees toward her chest to determine range of motion. And like his predecessors, he stopped when she yelped at the pain of a ligament pushed past its limit.
"I take it that hurt?" he said. He held her sole in his warm, dry hand as it twitched in response to the pain in her knee, which was bent at an acute angle.
She nodded and bit her lip against the lingering throb in her ACL. "Just a bit."
"Describe it for me."
"About a second of red-hot sonofabitch." When he greeted that with blank incomprehension, she added. "It's like being stabbed with a hot fork."
He hummed and slowly lowered her leg to the bed. "I'd venture to guess they're not used to deep motion--squats, lunges, things like that." He picked up her other leg and repeated the process. "The right's better than the left, but that's not saying much." He pressed until he met resistance, and heat prickled beneath her skin as she braced for the sharp, serrated-glass sizzle. "Relax," he urged. "Tensing up will only make it hurt more."
"I know that, and you know that, but-" she began.
"But your nervous system doesn't give a damn, I know," he finished for her with the irascibility of habit, but there was no real heat in it. "Still, it would be in your best interest to take a deep breath and relax. "Can you feel your toes?"
"Of course."
"Concentrate on uncurling them for me. If you can get the piggies to stick their heads out of the poke, the rest of your muscles will follow."
She giggled, amused at his homespun turn of phrase. "You have a way with words, Doctor."
"I'm glad you appreciate it," he grunted. "Now, piggies in a poke."
She tittered again, and then she took a deep breath and willed herself to relax. She surveyed the doctor from behind long eyelashes as he loomed over her in his blue tunic.
That's a handsome one, isn't he? Grandma Lavinia noted slyly as the doctor braced her knee with his free hand and coaxed it upward another degree. Lord, those cheekbones could give a woman the vapors. Probably cut paper, too.
She stifled a lecherous chortle at that, but she had to admit that her grandmother had a point. Dr. McCoy was handsome, his face unlined by the years of stress and long hours that came with his profession. There were no pouches beneath his eyes, no burst capillaries across the bridge of his nose that spoke of an uncomfortably intimate relationship with the bottle. No bloodshot eyes to hint at sleepless nights, no thinning hair or wattled skin. He was young and keen-eyed and lean beneath his tunic, and his hair was a rich, glossy brown beneath the lights.
Either he hasn't been at this long, or doctoring is a lot less stressful in this crazy Buck Rogers future. Maybe there's not that much to worry about when you've cured cancer and have no reason to obsess over your IRA and your 401K and your malpractice insurance premiums.
"Do you have malpractice insurance?" she blurted, and was instantly mortified. Smooth, Rodsalie, real smooth, she berated herself as Dr. McCoy stiffened in surprise. I'm sure he'll just love having his competence called into question again. While he's got your matchstick leg in his hands, no less.
As she expected, his eyes flashed with indignation. "Why?" he growled.
"It's just-" She shrugged helplessly. "You look young for a doctor. You don't have alcohol bloat or burst capillaries in your nose or wattles on your neck or the hangdog look of somebody who's been in surgery for seventeen hours and on call for seventy two and like you're contemplating driving into a bridge abutment at sixty miles an hour to shut your nagging wife up," she gabbled. "And oh, my God, I'm going to shut up now," she muttered miserably, and lapsed into horrified silence.
Rosalie, honey, I think you've blown your chance to see if you could get those uncooperative knees of yours over his shoulders, her grandmother said dolefully, and she bit the inside of her cheek to quell an inappropriate bray of laughter.
McCoy blinked at her in gelid, inscrutable silence for so long that she fought the urge to squirm on the bed. "I'll take that as a compliment," he said at last. He incrementally increased the bend of her knee. "I studied at the University of Missouri," he went on. "First in my class in anatomical and forensic pathology. I joined on at various clinics after I graduated, but the old folks didn't trust a kid wet behind the ears. So I set out my own shingle near the farming community where I grew up. Tended to farm accidents and delivered babies, mostly, though I did assist on a few shuttle crashes. I don't know what qualifications you're looking for, ma'am, but I promise I know my way around a human body." He gently flexed her heel cord and hummed at the result. "And a few non-human ones, if that makes any difference."
He lowered her leg and slid his hands beneath her hips. "I'm going to rotate your hips. Tell me if and when it hurts, and do us both a favor and don't try to gut it out until the pain gets intense." He raised a hip and rolled it to the side, watching her face for a reaction.
The good doctor was right, as it turned out. Two hundred and thirty-five years after her last doctor visit, and not much had changed. There were still medical histories to take and forms to fill out, and the doctor still hunkered on his stool and examined her as though she were a priceless artifact. He held her soft-skinned, eggshell feet in his hands and scowled at the faint blue tinge to her flesh, and he poked the soles of her feet with needles to determine sensation and reflexes. He pursed his lips and rolled her ankles and her wrists, and he ordered her to lie back on the bed while he palmed her feet and pushed her knees toward her chest to determine range of motion. And like his predecessors, he stopped when she yelped at the pain of a ligament pushed past its limit.
"I take it that hurt?" he said. He held her sole in his warm, dry hand as it twitched in response to the pain in her knee, which was bent at an acute angle.
She nodded and bit her lip against the lingering throb in her ACL. "Just a bit."
"Describe it for me."
"About a second of red-hot sonofabitch." When he greeted that with blank incomprehension, she added. "It's like being stabbed with a hot fork."
He hummed and slowly lowered her leg to the bed. "I'd venture to guess they're not used to deep motion--squats, lunges, things like that." He picked up her other leg and repeated the process. "The right's better than the left, but that's not saying much." He pressed until he met resistance, and heat prickled beneath her skin as she braced for the sharp, serrated-glass sizzle. "Relax," he urged. "Tensing up will only make it hurt more."
"I know that, and you know that, but-" she began.
"But your nervous system doesn't give a damn, I know," he finished for her with the irascibility of habit, but there was no real heat in it. "Still, it would be in your best interest to take a deep breath and relax. "Can you feel your toes?"
"Of course."
"Concentrate on uncurling them for me. If you can get the piggies to stick their heads out of the poke, the rest of your muscles will follow."
She giggled, amused at his homespun turn of phrase. "You have a way with words, Doctor."
"I'm glad you appreciate it," he grunted. "Now, piggies in a poke."
She tittered again, and then she took a deep breath and willed herself to relax. She surveyed the doctor from behind long eyelashes as he loomed over her in his blue tunic.
That's a handsome one, isn't he? Grandma Lavinia noted slyly as the doctor braced her knee with his free hand and coaxed it upward another degree. Lord, those cheekbones could give a woman the vapors. Probably cut paper, too.
She stifled a lecherous chortle at that, but she had to admit that her grandmother had a point. Dr. McCoy was handsome, his face unlined by the years of stress and long hours that came with his profession. There were no pouches beneath his eyes, no burst capillaries across the bridge of his nose that spoke of an uncomfortably intimate relationship with the bottle. No bloodshot eyes to hint at sleepless nights, no thinning hair or wattled skin. He was young and keen-eyed and lean beneath his tunic, and his hair was a rich, glossy brown beneath the lights.
Either he hasn't been at this long, or doctoring is a lot less stressful in this crazy Buck Rogers future. Maybe there's not that much to worry about when you've cured cancer and have no reason to obsess over your IRA and your 401K and your malpractice insurance premiums.
"Do you have malpractice insurance?" she blurted, and was instantly mortified. Smooth, Rodsalie, real smooth, she berated herself as Dr. McCoy stiffened in surprise. I'm sure he'll just love having his competence called into question again. While he's got your matchstick leg in his hands, no less.
As she expected, his eyes flashed with indignation. "Why?" he growled.
"It's just-" She shrugged helplessly. "You look young for a doctor. You don't have alcohol bloat or burst capillaries in your nose or wattles on your neck or the hangdog look of somebody who's been in surgery for seventeen hours and on call for seventy two and like you're contemplating driving into a bridge abutment at sixty miles an hour to shut your nagging wife up," she gabbled. "And oh, my God, I'm going to shut up now," she muttered miserably, and lapsed into horrified silence.
Rosalie, honey, I think you've blown your chance to see if you could get those uncooperative knees of yours over his shoulders, her grandmother said dolefully, and she bit the inside of her cheek to quell an inappropriate bray of laughter.
McCoy blinked at her in gelid, inscrutable silence for so long that she fought the urge to squirm on the bed. "I'll take that as a compliment," he said at last. He incrementally increased the bend of her knee. "I studied at the University of Missouri," he went on. "First in my class in anatomical and forensic pathology. I joined on at various clinics after I graduated, but the old folks didn't trust a kid wet behind the ears. So I set out my own shingle near the farming community where I grew up. Tended to farm accidents and delivered babies, mostly, though I did assist on a few shuttle crashes. I don't know what qualifications you're looking for, ma'am, but I promise I know my way around a human body." He gently flexed her heel cord and hummed at the result. "And a few non-human ones, if that makes any difference."
He lowered her leg and slid his hands beneath her hips. "I'm going to rotate your hips. Tell me if and when it hurts, and do us both a favor and don't try to gut it out until the pain gets intense." He raised a hip and rolled it to the side, watching her face for a reaction.
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