Hold your taters, darling

I'm taking care of Elvis. Seriously. Well, not seriously. But I'm going to call him that anyway. He and his wife are quintessential Deep South. My patient's wife, whom I'm going to call Scarlett, helped me in a marathon phonetag session in which I contacted no less than three separate VA hospitals, and between my earnest, serious requests for information and her down-home cajoling (involving exclamations like "well kiss my grits, honey, you're just gonna have to do that for me" and "hold your taters there darling, I'm his wife, of course I have a right to this information") we managed to get almost all of the records we needed to treat Elvis. I have no idea what those phrases mean, but they seem to work. Usually better than my more restrained requests. I somehow doubt I could pull off her style though.

It is touching to see how deeply in love Elvis and Scarlett are. She's there all the time, and she told me that, when he's asleep, she sees wings and a halo on him. Patients like this are a joy to treat.