ways_infirmary | (no subject)

(no subject)

Quite technically, Claire doesn't work here.

But she is a doctor, and she does know that her boyfriend can go in and out, so when she and Jack Driscoll wander in, well, Kevin Fawkes will be her excuse.

It is the best place for patient-doctor confidentiality, anyway.

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Jack hasn't been in here before. He takes a moment to look around before facing the doctor.

She smiles, patiently. "You seem nervous."

... duh, Claire.

Very duh.

"I think I might have tuberculosis."

Mmm, bluntness.

"... I think I'm going to need a quick medical history." Claire's almost amused, but it's a serious disease, and hey, bluntness.

Of course she's only seen TB in Vietnam and Mexico, never in America, and never in a layman case -- so it's hard for her to believe the suspicion.

"Why do you suspect this?" She's pulled up a spare chart lickety-split.

"I'm from 1933. I've been exposed to people with tuberculosis in my childhood. And someone I know here has it as well. Someone I've been in...close contact with."

... well, that explains that.

"Are you considerably symptomatic?" she asks, making a couple of notes.

"No."

"Mm. Ever been given the -- no, they didn't have BCG in 1933, did they. Haven't suddenly lost any weight? And your body temperature's steady? Do you sleep through nights?"

He smirks wryly. "Sleep through the nights? I try to. Everything else: no."

"Try and manage." She notes that, too. "One more question -- should I interpret 'close contact' in that there was a fluid exchange between you and a TB patient?"

"..............yes."

Claire shakes her head, tongue clicking. "Carriers need to learn to be more careful. But then again, no one can blame them -- okay. Whichever hand isn't your dominant one, roll up that sleeve, please?"

She's going for the isopropyl, folks.

He rolls up his left sleeve, eyeing the machine.

The chromatograph didn't do anything.

It sits there and doesn't react, but since it does have an eye, technically speaking, maybe it is eyeing him back.

Claire swabs his wrist, half-smiling.

"I will not lie: this will hurt."

"How much?"

Jack's just a mite paranoid of big clunky machines.

"Not much. It's a pinprick."

Which it is -- Claire, armed with a PPD tab, pokes it into his wrist before he's got a chance to note what she's doing.

Jack flinches. "Ow!"

Claire laughs, quietly. "Sorry."

The tab's removed and bagged, and she reaches for the chart again, making another note.

"Give that spot about two days. Don't put anything on it. Then come back, let me check it out."

He nods. "Is there anything I should be looking for?"

"Any swelling, in that spot. And otherwise, watch out for the typical systems -- coughing, expelling of excess mucus, fevers, night sweats." She clicks her tongue. "And try not to be involved in any physical contact with humans, direct or indirect. Same room? Fine. Don't touch anyone, or their food, or their bedsheets. Just until the test results are in, okay?"

He nods. "Okay. Two days, then. Same time?"

"Sure thing. I should be here. In fact ... I'll stick around for a couple of days, in case I'm needed."

There's a pause, and then she shakes her head.

"... I never gave you my name, did I. Good lord."

He shakes his head. "I never gave you mine, either, did I?"

"The way I get caught up in my work. Anyway. I'm Claire Keogh -- if you meet someone named Darien Fawkes, don't tell him that, office policy -- and if you lived in a time with phone connection I'd give you my card, but I don't think it'd help."

"Don't think I'd be able to call you, anyway. I'm Jack Driscoll."

"Glad to have a name for the top of the file," Claire smiles again, making a note. "Good to meet you, Mr Driscoll, and if I can be of any more help, just let me know. Through Bar, I suppose."

"All right." He rolls his sleeve back up. "I'll keep in touch, then."

"Two days' time," she says once more. "Have a good evening."

The notes are slipped back into her tote, and she nods.

"Thanks. You have a good evening, too."

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