Doc: The Rape of the Town of Lovell by Ron Franscell, Jack Olsen Page B
Authors: Ron Franscell, Jack Olsen
Tags: Psychology, Health; Fitness & Dieting, True Crime, Biographies & Memoirs, Mental Illness, Psychology & Counseling, Pathologies, Medical Books
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her co-owners, Arden and Dean. The $1200 monthly mortgage payment left no money for wages, but the equity was building. Minda knew all about working for nothing. At heart she was a Mormon farmer, an end product of LDS history. Once the prophet Brigham Young had beckoned his wagon train to a halt, looked out on an alkali waste and a Ashless lake, and announced, "This is the place!" Other Saints had worked the same miracle in Lovell.
Minda felt she was creating her own version in the family's steaming, scorching cleaning shop. Every day she would tag the clothes, go through the pockets, spray solvent on armpit and crotch, stuff the clothes into the cleaning machine, pull them out and peel them apart, press them in the clamp-down press, then hang them on hangers for Mrs. Kelly, the old lady who ran the front and did the books and had been around for years.
Summer turned the dry cleaners into a hissing blast furnace. Minda loved the discomfort. She'd had arthritis from childhood; the heat wanned her bones and gave her a measure of relief. Not even Dr. Story had been able to do as well. They figured her arthritis was congenital; her mom suffered from it, too.
Scott added a moonlighting job to his work in the oil fields and Minda adjusted her schedule accordingly. She put the four children to bed at seven and dry-cleaned other people's clothes till midnight. The old bills weren't getting paid off fast enough to suit her, so she hired her sister Meg to baby-sit the kids and took a daytime job at the Queen Bee Gardens east of town. From 8 a.m. on, she worked the hives, helped to make honey candy, and built up her immunity by getting stung. At 5 p.m. she sped home to make supper for the kids, put them to bed, and worked till midnight at the cleaners.
The symptoms hit five months later. Her tongue and throat became irritated from the dry solvent in the prespotter. The arthritis in her hips forced a steady diet of Motrin. She had a semipermanent cold and a permanent headache.
Her mother insisted that she see Dr. Story. "Oh, Mom," Minda said, "he always gives me pelvics, and I hate 'em."
"If he gives you a pelvic, there's a reason," Arden said. Minda thought, Gol, Mom, you sound like a broken record.
When her throat was so swollen that she couldn't eat solid food, she made an appointment, canceled it, made another a week later and canceled again, then phoned in to cancel a third. The receptionist, a family friend and Mormon sister named Diana Harrison, said, "Minda, you've really got to get in here and see Doctor."
That was his regular name around the clinic: "Doctor," as though it were a proper name.
"Well, Diana," Minda said, "I—"
"Come up right now, Minda, and we'll work you in. It's for your own good."
In Examining Room No. 2, Dr. Story squeezed her breasts. "Your children are healthy and beautiful, I'm sure," he said in his soft voice. "Just like their mother. How's Amber Dawn?"
"Fine," Minda answered. She sat on the table and thought, He won't hurt me. He cares too much for me and the children.
She described her symptoms while he studied his clipboard. "It's been eight months since you were in," he said.
"I know," Minda said. She didn't want to admit that she'd deliberately stayed away. It wasn't his fault she was chicken. "My hips hurt," she said quickly. "I think it's from working on those concrete floors. When I get upset, my stomach has fits. Turns don't even touch it."
"You can't be as sick as you think, Minda," he said, smiling. "You look too nice."
He pushed at her stomach and she tucked it in. "Feels good," he commented.
He told her she needed a pelvic examination for her hips. She thought back on all the times she'd been dilated for colds, bee stings, kitchen burns, pregnancies, a nail puncture, sometimes even for vaginal problems. She thought, It's a wonder he recognizes me by my face.
"I've had so much trouble with my tongue," she said. "Is there such a thing as a tongue transplant?"
He laughed with
Minda felt she was creating her own version in the family's steaming, scorching cleaning shop. Every day she would tag the clothes, go through the pockets, spray solvent on armpit and crotch, stuff the clothes into the cleaning machine, pull them out and peel them apart, press them in the clamp-down press, then hang them on hangers for Mrs. Kelly, the old lady who ran the front and did the books and had been around for years.
Summer turned the dry cleaners into a hissing blast furnace. Minda loved the discomfort. She'd had arthritis from childhood; the heat wanned her bones and gave her a measure of relief. Not even Dr. Story had been able to do as well. They figured her arthritis was congenital; her mom suffered from it, too.
Scott added a moonlighting job to his work in the oil fields and Minda adjusted her schedule accordingly. She put the four children to bed at seven and dry-cleaned other people's clothes till midnight. The old bills weren't getting paid off fast enough to suit her, so she hired her sister Meg to baby-sit the kids and took a daytime job at the Queen Bee Gardens east of town. From 8 a.m. on, she worked the hives, helped to make honey candy, and built up her immunity by getting stung. At 5 p.m. she sped home to make supper for the kids, put them to bed, and worked till midnight at the cleaners.
The symptoms hit five months later. Her tongue and throat became irritated from the dry solvent in the prespotter. The arthritis in her hips forced a steady diet of Motrin. She had a semipermanent cold and a permanent headache.
Her mother insisted that she see Dr. Story. "Oh, Mom," Minda said, "he always gives me pelvics, and I hate 'em."
"If he gives you a pelvic, there's a reason," Arden said. Minda thought, Gol, Mom, you sound like a broken record.
When her throat was so swollen that she couldn't eat solid food, she made an appointment, canceled it, made another a week later and canceled again, then phoned in to cancel a third. The receptionist, a family friend and Mormon sister named Diana Harrison, said, "Minda, you've really got to get in here and see Doctor."
That was his regular name around the clinic: "Doctor," as though it were a proper name.
"Well, Diana," Minda said, "I—"
"Come up right now, Minda, and we'll work you in. It's for your own good."
In Examining Room No. 2, Dr. Story squeezed her breasts. "Your children are healthy and beautiful, I'm sure," he said in his soft voice. "Just like their mother. How's Amber Dawn?"
"Fine," Minda answered. She sat on the table and thought, He won't hurt me. He cares too much for me and the children.
She described her symptoms while he studied his clipboard. "It's been eight months since you were in," he said.
"I know," Minda said. She didn't want to admit that she'd deliberately stayed away. It wasn't his fault she was chicken. "My hips hurt," she said quickly. "I think it's from working on those concrete floors. When I get upset, my stomach has fits. Turns don't even touch it."
"You can't be as sick as you think, Minda," he said, smiling. "You look too nice."
He pushed at her stomach and she tucked it in. "Feels good," he commented.
He told her she needed a pelvic examination for her hips. She thought back on all the times she'd been dilated for colds, bee stings, kitchen burns, pregnancies, a nail puncture, sometimes even for vaginal problems. She thought, It's a wonder he recognizes me by my face.
"I've had so much trouble with my tongue," she said. "Is there such a thing as a tongue transplant?"
He laughed with
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