THE GWYNN REAPER

In St. Azrael Hospital’s cafeteria.

“Oh there you are, Dr. Scott.  Thanks for meeting with me.  I’m Gwynn Reaper.”

Red framed glasses.  Green shirt.  Bright orange bob hairstyle with a conspicuous streak of white hair across her forehead.  The only thing that hinted at her age was her smile wrinkles.

“Funeral’s at noon and I need this death certificate signed right away.  You’re covering for Dr. Blonde right?”

“Yeah, but I never met this –, “ I try to answer.

“Oh that’s okay.  Here,” she plops down the deceased patient’s chart on the table with a wide smile making an offer I can’t refuse.

It used to be that the dead would be ferried across to their final rest with a single silver coin under their tongues, or coins over their eyes, or a blessing and a prayer.  These days a lawful and proper death is all about the paperwork. 

I once asked what would happen if the papers weren’t signed by the time of the funeral. 

“It’s a mess.  You don’t want to know,” was the best answer I got.

I flip through the chart starting at the end faster than you can read this.  Inevitable expiration note:  “Called to see … no respirations … blah blah blah.”  Day before note:  “patient comfortable … hospice … morphine ….”  Flip.  “Family conference.”  Flip.  Flip.  Blah blah aspiration blah. 

I close the chart.

“Oh that was quick.  You’re good,” Gwynn says all chipper.

I write:

“aspiration pneumonia”

on the Cause of Death line and then

“respiratory depression” under it. 

“Respiratory depression” doesn’t count as a cause of death for some reason.  Probably because everyone who doesn’t die of sudden death dies of respiratory depression.  These death certificate people are really particular about that. 

“Ooh, you smudged the ‘a’ there … in ‘aspiration’,” she pouts.

“I did?”

“That’s okay.  I’ll type up another copy.  Just sign this extra certificate.”

Really particular.  And prepared.

“Are you the person that called me at home about that autopsy last weekend?” I ask.  She seems familiar.

“Oh yes, that was me,” Gwynn Reaper giggles impishly.

* * *

That was a typical Christmas case.  Bars close on Christmas.  Alcoholics get the DT’s (delirium tremens, severe withdrawal) from Santa the day after.  Suicidal overdoses get a lump of coal in the form of charcoal down a nasogastric tube.  I guess that fat red bastard really does check that list twice.  Sure enough, I got a seizing alcoholic with a one-way ticket to the ICU for Christmas. 

The family thought I was really smart when I corrected the ER doc’s reading of the X-ray.

“The other doctor said he has fluid in his lung.”

“It’s not fluid.  It’s whited-out … except for this … tiny … triangle here.  That’s part of the back of his lung.  If it was fluid, it would be white too.  He’s got a pneumonia in the right middle lobe,” I circled the area with my finger and asked, 

“Has he been throwing up?” 

“Yeah, all day.”

“Well that’s where some of his vomit went.  Aspiration pneumonia in the right middle lobe.  If he was lying down, it might have been the upper lobe,” I said elementarily.

Colonel Mustard in the Bathroom with an empty bottle of Jack Daniels. 

I told his tearful teen daughter that daddy wasn’t doing so well.  I told his frail wheelchair-bound mother that her boy’s favorite mistake was going to be his last one.  She wouldn’t let go … of my hand.

Two days after he died, Gwynn called me at home saying the wife wanted an autopsy but I could deny her request because two days was really too late.  There was some drama about his wife, ex-wife, and girlfriend as well.  It was a Jerry Springer Christmas party!

* * *

 “Thanks for that one too.  That autopsy went without a hitch,” she flashes as much of her skull as possible – her teeth.

"Do you do all the death certificate work here?"

“If it’s death-related, it’s my job,” Miss Reaper tilts her head with a self-aware but sanguine cheerfulness so infectious it’s practically epidemic,

“I’ll be paging you again soon I’m sure.  I really appreciate the help.”   

“Sure.  Nice to meet you.”

In person … I think.

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