Diagnosis

Dr. Barten sighed and dropped the patient's file on the counter.

The patient looked up hesitantly at the man of science.

"What is it?" He asked, prepared for the worst.

"What you have, Mr. James, is a case of Smug."

"What?" The patient was incredulous. They always were.

Dr. Barten looked at the white metal heating vent on the floor and nodded. Mr. James bluffed and squirmed, denied and argued. Those actions further clinched the diagnosis. The doctor picked up the file once again, flicking little points with his fingernail as he spoke. His eyes went elsewhere in the room, anywhere but Mr. James,

"Compulsive being right, fact checking to prove a point, excessive celery intake, and Trophy Wife syndrome. It all points to only one thing, sir."

"B-but I contribute to charity!" The man blustered, angry now, "I coach Little League for my son!"

"Mm-hmm. All signs."

"Well!" The man got up and began to button his shirt, "I will just have to go get a second opinion!"

"Please do so, Mr. James." The doctor's answer was dry and barely interested. Once the patient became combative, there was little to be done.

Mr. James fumbled with his tie and wallet, got up from the examination table and strode roughly towards the door. As his hand touched the knob, however, his shoulders slumped ever so slightly and he half-turned to his old family GP,

"If-if it really is, what's the cure?"

"Oh, well, not too complicated, really..." the doctor's voice was now warmer, just a bit compassionate, actually. "You just need to volunteer at a soup kitchen, give up the second home, buy generic clothes for a month or two. Shop the clearance aisle, maybe. It's different for different people, but I think you'd do well to drop Little League for a few weeks, maybe spend some time cleaning your mom's garage out. You said she'd been putting pressure on you-"

"I will definitely be getting that second opinion!" The man snapped. He tried to slam the door behind him, but the hydraulics prevented a hard close, and he wound up looking foolish. A passing nurse bit her lip to keep from smiling. She knew the diagnosis the moment the man set foot in the waiting room, and she knew the hydraulic doors were just a small part of the cure.

Dr. Barten had little time to think of Mr. James, for next was a woman patient, a Miss Angela Vourhagen. She had been prepped by Jo, one of Mr. Barten's newer nurses. On the chart was that bubbly handwriting so vexing to look at, and her notes seemed to indicate an auto-immune disorder of some sort. With raised eyebrows, the doctor knocked on the gray door and entered.

"Hello!" He always tried to be cheerful right from the start. It helped somewhat.

Miss Vourhagen, however, was having none of it. She turned a pitiful face to the doctor and merely bent her mouth a bit at the corners.

"How are we today?" Dr. Barten sang out, snapping a cover on the otoscope. The patient began to list her ailments alphabetically. This generally meant that they had done some internet research before coming in.

He peered inside her right ear, noting the perfect health inside and the little metal ring through her cartilage. Looking inside her left ear, he commented on the lack of earwax buildup.

"Oh, that's because I'm a vegan." The patient responded, with that little edge of tone to her voice that he was becoming so familiar with lately. The doctor felt his insides turn over a bit. It was spreading faster than he had thought.

"Ms. Vourhagen," asked the doctor, "what do you do for recreation?"

The patient put her head on one side, her ailments temporarily subsided,

"Well, I hike the trail twice a week," she answered, "and I volunteer at a shelter. I'm active in PETA and Greenpeace and I place survey calls for the Green Party."

"Sounds like quite the full schedule, there." He observed dryly, making a tiny mark on her chart. Some of the prescriptions he gave to others became the symptoms of the next. It was odd.

"Well, Doctor," she leaned forward and hugged her knees, "one has to give back to their world, you know. So many people go through life consuming, there has to be a group of people keeping this planet safe." She looked at him meaningfully.

The doctor nodded and stood up. His swivel chair make a squeaking sound and spun softly into the exam table.

"There's been a virus going around, Angela. I'm pretty sure you've got it. I'm going to prescribe some different volunteer work for bit- how about you visit the retirement home down the road, spend some time talking to patients there about the Great Depression, ask them how they survived the War. Then I want you to-"

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?!" Miss Vourhagen interrupted him furiously.

"Ah, ahem, yes." He nodded, "You have a case of Smug."

"I do not!" She shouted, "I am healthy! I am-"

"I'll see you next week for a followup, Ms. Vourhagen."

The doctor was becoming immune to their protestations. It wasn't that much of a complication, this epidemic. It came on slowly, almost below notice. He walked out while she argued, and let the door shut gently behind him. He rubbed his forehead, flicked his eyes over the patient charts hanging neatly above his desk, and plumped down in his chair. Jo walked by and patted his shoulder.

"Stupid people," Dr. Barten grumbled at her, "that guy with the tie, and that guy before him with the church, and that lady yesterday with her non-vaccinated kids... it's spreading so fast but they all think they're immune, that it's someone else who has it. I just can't stand even looking at them anymore! I think-" he stopped and put his hand on his heart, "I think they're making me sick!"

"Hmm," Jo frowned, "you should get that checked out. I've heard there's somethign going around..."

Labels: diagnosis, short story, smug, smugness