In retrospect, you can’t believe you missed it: three different days, the same diagnosis. They pop back into your head: the kid hanging off the chair, left arm askew; the three-piece-suit-and-briefcase guy, head jerking like a man with runaway Tourette’s; the 30-something Latino clutching his chest.
The kid showed up on a busting-at-the-seams Friday night.
“Doc, it kills. Oh gawd, it kills,” he wailed, cradling his left arm. The 20-something had a junior camp counselor look to go with his Long Island accent.
Obvious shoulder dislocation. Quick discharge. I grabbed him ahead of three other patients.
“Doc, you’re the best!” he cried. “How do I fix this? The shoulder keeps slipping out and dislocating. If only that drug addict hadn’t kicked me in the ambulance.”
“You were a medic?”
“That junkie ended my career. Destroyed my rotator cuff.”
Clucking in sympathy, I eased his shirt off. A surgical scar bisected ...
