said.
“But I never told you I had a migraine.”
“Uh . . . yes. Well, before Dr. Spencer left for the day, he mentioned you had a history of migraines. And this is a new drug that works wonders on them.”
And because this man said he was a colleague of their trusted family doctor, Olivia was only slightly suspicious of him. But she should have been much more suspicious. Especially when the doctor raised his arm to inject her with whatever was in that hypodermic needle. Because when he did, his sleeve rode up, revealing a strange tattoo on his left wrist. A tattoo that read 3VAW1X319. And if she had seen that tattoo reflected in his mirrored sunglasses, she surely would have run from the room and gone straight to the police. For when seen in a mirror, that strange tattoo read Plexiwave.
ADVICE ON CHOOSING A DOCTOR
T here comes a time in everyone’s life (being born, for instance) when he or she will require the help of a qualified physician. When this time does arrive, you’ll want to make sure you end up with a good one because, for one thing, doctors aren’t cheap.
Gone are the days when the old country doctor would drive out to your house and amputate your infected leg in exchange for a basket of goose eggs and a rhubarb pie.
Nowadays, such a procedure would cost you quite a bit more. By the time you managed to bake enough rhubarb pies, your leg would probably fall off by itself.
At today’s prices, you can’t afford to entrust your health and well-being to anyone but the best doctors available. I have therefore put together a short list of warning signs to indicate that perhaps you have selected a bad doctor.
He listens to your heart by holding a drinking glass to your chest.
The skeleton in his office has one arm.
The aquarium in the waiting room contains two or more dead fish.
He advises you to drink plenty of solids.
He has a sweaty, bald head and a tattoo on his left wrist that, when seen in a mirror, forms the name of an evil international weapons conglomerate.
CHAPTER 7
O livia returned from the clinic feeling worse than she had before she went in. She told her husband about the substitute doctor with the strange tattoo who had given her the injection.
Mr. Cheeseman was immediately suspicious, and when Olivia drifted off to sleep, he called the police, who launched a full investigation but were never able to find the man who called himself Dr. Fiverson or anyone who had ever heard of him. When Ethan went in to see the officer assigned to the case, a tall, tired-looking man with a calico mustache, the man assured him that they were doing everything they could to locate the suspect.
The man was friendly and offered Mr. Cheeseman a cup of coffee, which he served to him in a white mug adorned with a letter P made up of wavy blue lines. This is precisely when Ethan realized he was on his own.
Over the next couple of months, various specialists prescribed various medications but Olivia’s condition failed to improve. At one point, she became bedridden. She passed the time by knitting things for her children when she could muster up the strength. In addition to being a fabulous cook, a wonderful mother, and a brilliant scientist, Olivia could knit just about anything. Give her enough yarn and it was quite possible she could knit a go-cart or a grand piano. But she was too weak for projects of such enormity and so she kept it simple. For Jough, she made a stocking cap, for Maggie, a lovely scarf, and for little Gerard, a sock puppet, which he immediately named Steve, placed on his left hand, and vowed never to remove.
In time, Olivia’s energy diminished to the point that even holding her knitting needles was too difficult, and the many medications she was taking turned something as simple as knitting into a frustrating and confusing endeavor.
Powerless to help her, Ethan could only sit and watch as his beautiful wife, the love of his life, slowly slipped into unconsciousness, never to waken
“But I never told you I had a migraine.”
“Uh . . . yes. Well, before Dr. Spencer left for the day, he mentioned you had a history of migraines. And this is a new drug that works wonders on them.”
And because this man said he was a colleague of their trusted family doctor, Olivia was only slightly suspicious of him. But she should have been much more suspicious. Especially when the doctor raised his arm to inject her with whatever was in that hypodermic needle. Because when he did, his sleeve rode up, revealing a strange tattoo on his left wrist. A tattoo that read 3VAW1X319. And if she had seen that tattoo reflected in his mirrored sunglasses, she surely would have run from the room and gone straight to the police. For when seen in a mirror, that strange tattoo read Plexiwave.
ADVICE ON CHOOSING A DOCTOR
T here comes a time in everyone’s life (being born, for instance) when he or she will require the help of a qualified physician. When this time does arrive, you’ll want to make sure you end up with a good one because, for one thing, doctors aren’t cheap.
Gone are the days when the old country doctor would drive out to your house and amputate your infected leg in exchange for a basket of goose eggs and a rhubarb pie.
Nowadays, such a procedure would cost you quite a bit more. By the time you managed to bake enough rhubarb pies, your leg would probably fall off by itself.
At today’s prices, you can’t afford to entrust your health and well-being to anyone but the best doctors available. I have therefore put together a short list of warning signs to indicate that perhaps you have selected a bad doctor.
He listens to your heart by holding a drinking glass to your chest.
The skeleton in his office has one arm.
The aquarium in the waiting room contains two or more dead fish.
He advises you to drink plenty of solids.
He has a sweaty, bald head and a tattoo on his left wrist that, when seen in a mirror, forms the name of an evil international weapons conglomerate.
CHAPTER 7
O livia returned from the clinic feeling worse than she had before she went in. She told her husband about the substitute doctor with the strange tattoo who had given her the injection.
Mr. Cheeseman was immediately suspicious, and when Olivia drifted off to sleep, he called the police, who launched a full investigation but were never able to find the man who called himself Dr. Fiverson or anyone who had ever heard of him. When Ethan went in to see the officer assigned to the case, a tall, tired-looking man with a calico mustache, the man assured him that they were doing everything they could to locate the suspect.
The man was friendly and offered Mr. Cheeseman a cup of coffee, which he served to him in a white mug adorned with a letter P made up of wavy blue lines. This is precisely when Ethan realized he was on his own.
Over the next couple of months, various specialists prescribed various medications but Olivia’s condition failed to improve. At one point, she became bedridden. She passed the time by knitting things for her children when she could muster up the strength. In addition to being a fabulous cook, a wonderful mother, and a brilliant scientist, Olivia could knit just about anything. Give her enough yarn and it was quite possible she could knit a go-cart or a grand piano. But she was too weak for projects of such enormity and so she kept it simple. For Jough, she made a stocking cap, for Maggie, a lovely scarf, and for little Gerard, a sock puppet, which he immediately named Steve, placed on his left hand, and vowed never to remove.
In time, Olivia’s energy diminished to the point that even holding her knitting needles was too difficult, and the many medications she was taking turned something as simple as knitting into a frustrating and confusing endeavor.
Powerless to help her, Ethan could only sit and watch as his beautiful wife, the love of his life, slowly slipped into unconsciousness, never to waken
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