Dr. Belliveau's Dream Job - Chapter 10 [Fiction - Humour]

Dr. Belliveau is relieved to know he'll never have to give a false diagnosis to the wrong patient again.

Stacey made the doctor drive them home to her place, just a few blocks away.

I can’t just run away, Dr. Belliveau said. I’ll lose my license.

What difference does it make if you don’t want to be a doctor anymore anyhow? Stacey replied.

Here, Stacey motioned to the side of the street. I don’t have a driveway. Park here.

Dr. Belliveau did as he was told, showing off his remarkable parallel parking skills. Stacey was surprised but wasn’t interested in giving unsolicited praise for his driving acumen.

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Stacey unlocked her apartment and showed the doctor in. She watched his gaze fall over her mismatched furniture, thrifted artwork, and grungy aquarium. He went over and peered inside, giving his head a short nod as if he knew nothing could live in there.

Stacey shrugged off her fall jacket and placed it on the back of the wooden chair that guarded her small kitchen table. She felt awkward, the full realization of what was happening standing before her. Dr. Belliveau. This was all his fault.

Luckily, she had a plan, something she’d been crafting in her mind for a while. Until this moment, it felt more like a whimsical dream than something she could pull off in real time. But here they were. In a predicament. It was time.

Why don’t you sit down, Stacey told Dr. Belliveau. Again, he did as he was told.

My apartment isn’t much bigger than this, he said, nervously deciding which leg to cross over the other. Left over right? Right over left?

Don’t worry about it. You’ll be back at your apartment soon. I just needed a chance to talk this out.

The doctor looked her in the eye, brows furrowed. He sat perched on the couch, his coat still buttoned to his neck, in anticipation.

I’m starting a life coaching business, Stacey blurted. I’ll need a secretary. YOU could be my secretary.

The doctor shook his head, confused. What about my medical practice? He asked.

What about it? Stacey asked. You won’t need it.

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The doctor’s spine loosened and bent, allowing him to curl into the back of the couch cushion. His shoulders curved forward, and the tip of his chin touched the buttoned-up collar of his jacket.

I’ll make a good secretary, he said, practically whispering. When do I start? he asked.

Stacey felt the burn of anxiety in her chest. Shit. Shit. Shit, she thought. Maybe she hadn’t thought this through as clearly as she’d intended.

We’ll start here, Stacey ad-libbed. I’ll use my socials to advertise. You can work from your apartment. Clients can come here…or….or….even better….I can meet with them in public places. I’ll treat them to a coffee and snack at the mall food court. It’ll be part of the package.

Stacey filled the space between her and Dr. Belliveau with what would become her business plan. Every word spoken was like a tiny foot stamping down the doubt and fear that crept into her throat.

I can’t pay you yet, she said. You’ll have to trust me, right? We need clients before I can pay you. Maybe we could work out a deal where you get a percentage of what I earn from each client. Easier than an hourly rate sort of thing.

Dr. Belliveau nodded. The brewing excitement he felt hadn’t quite reached his face yet. Like Stacey, he had some misgivings. But he had money saved. He could live on his savings for at least a year. And he wouldn’t have to give up his medical license right away.

There was time. Maybe even enough time to make this work, he thought.

Okay, he said aloud, surprising himself.

Okay what? Stacey replied.

To be your secretary! he said. It would be so easy! He could already feel the load of responsibility he carried loosen from his shoulders. He thought of the last time he had to tell a patient they were terminal.

I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do, he’d said carefully. Your condition is advancing quickly. If I were you, I’d get my affairs in order.

The patient was in shock. She looked to her husband (whom Dr. Belliveau had asked to accompany her to the appointment) in disbelief.

I only came in for bursitis treatment, she’d said.

Dr. Belliveau nodded sadly. Yes, encephalitis. It’s bad, I’m afraid. Very bad. You could be in a coma by noon.

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Dr. Belliveau remembered the look on his patient’s face. She’d gone from disbelief to anger in less than ten seconds. He recalled with horror the look of anger on her husband’s face, and the fist he was sure would be destined for his nose.

Do you know what you’re talking about? The husband had roared, pounding his fist on the desk.

Dr. Belliveau recoiled at that point, quickly glancing down at the file on his desk.

Mrs. Jardine? he asked meekly. That’s when he knew he’d gotten it wrong. Bursitis flare-up, he read aloud from the file.

Nobody dies from bursitis, you fool, and I’m NOT Mrs. Jardine, she shouted hotly.

Tears that had gathered in her eyes plopped onto her cheeks. She brushed them away angrily and stood with her husband. Together, they looked down their beakish noses at the doctor.

You’ll be hearing from our lawyer! The man had shouted. The woman, clearly still shocked and appalled, trembled from her shoulders to her knees.

IDIOT! She’d shouted. Fucking moron.

He would never have to falsely give a wrong diagnosis to the wrong person ever again. He was free!

He looked at Stacey again, this time with hope and excitement.

When can we get started? he asked.

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Stay tuned for chapter 11, where it gets even weirder, and there will be more highly unlikely scenarios.

PS: I have early-onset dementia and thought it would be a fun idea to write this book as fast as I can, with little editing. Thank God for autocorrect because this book would probably be illegible. The disease is affecting my speech and language, so this is kind of therapeutic, I guess. Or is it therapeutic if autocorrect is helping? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Never mind.