Hotshot Doc
Page 39
Then he takes a step into the lounge and I swear every person’s breath catches from shock. Doctor’s don’t eat in here. They have chocolate fountains and catering. We have plastic utensils and Cup of Noodles.
If he’s aware of everyone’s attention on him, he doesn’t seem to care. He claims an empty table in the corner, drops the files that were clutched under his arm, and makes himself at home. The silence in the lounge continues as I walk to gather my meager lunch and head over to join him. All eyes are on me. I’m sure everyone’s wondering what’s going on, why he would deign to grace us with his presence.
I shake off their attention and try to focus on Matt. If he’s here, willing to talk to me, the case must be pretty important.
I sit down across the table and see he’s already laid out a few pieces of paper for me to read, his lunch forgotten, so I follow his lead and forget about mine too.
“A colleague of mine in Chicago emailed me this morning about an emergent case,” he says, launching straight into work. “A nineteen-year-old female presenting with extreme kyphosis and compression of her spine. She should have had surgery years ago, but her doctors and her parents chose to prioritize her other health concerns.”
I frown and lean forward to read her file. “What other health concerns?”
“Leukemia.” My breath hitches and I glance back up at him. His frown is deep as he continues, “They haven’t completely ignored her spine issues. She’s been wearing a brace for the last year and a half, but it’s no use—”
“She’s too old,” I conclude.
He nods with a grim frown. “Had they used a brace when she was younger, she might have stood a chance at foregoing surgery, but now it’s a necessity.”
“Why now? Why is this emergent?”
He pushes a document toward me, but the mass of words means nothing to me. I don’t even know what I’m looking at. Then one word at the very top of the page jumps out at me: paraplegia.
“Because as of last week, June can’t walk.” My hand flies to my mouth before I can stop it. “The curvature of her spine is extremely severe. She’s complained of numbness and paresthesia in her legs for the last few months. Last Monday, her symptoms intensified to the point of paraplegia. She’s lost all motor function in both of her legs.”
All I can think is, Poor June. To have endured leukemia only to now deal with this.
“What can be done?”
He gathers the papers in a neat pile and I watch as sheer determination sparks in his gaze.
“The paraplegia is a symptom, not a life sentence. Her spine needs to be decompressed to alleviate the pressure on those nerves. Hopefully, after the inflammation goes down, she’ll regain motor function.”
“Is your colleague in Chicago going to take the case?”
He shakes his head. “It’s not his specialty. Even if it was, June’s body has been through hell with chemo and radiation. There are additional risks. Most surgeons wouldn’t take this on.”
But Matt will. He has to.
His gaze meets mine and he must sense what I’m thinking because a moment later, he nods. “Her parents are bringing her here on the next flight out of Chicago. If we’re going to do this, I’ll need your help.”
There’s no hesitation.
I nod emphatically. “Yes. Of course.”
I had no idea what I was agreeing to. The moment I nod, he stands, tells me to gather my stuff, and we head back to his office. Patricia is standing at her desk as we approach, hurriedly writing on a notepad with her office phone pressed to her ear.
When she spots us, she tells the person on the line to hold on, presses the phone to her chest, and then launches into an update for Matt. “Dr. Buchanan is on line one. Dr. Mills says he’ll call you back when he gets out of surgery. Dr. Goddard is still out for lunch, but I’ll try to catch him when he gets back. Mr. and Mrs. Olsen will be on a flight with June from Chicago at 6:45 PM. I tried to get them a room at the hotel across the street, but it’s booked with holiday travelers. I’m talking to another hotel now.”
Matt listens and nods as he proceeds into his office. “Have Bailey take over the hotels. I need you to finish clearing my schedule. Push everyone you can into the new year. They’ll protest—I’m sure they’ve all met their deductibles, but assure them we’ll work with their insurance companies and figure something out.” He continues inside, raising his voice so we can hear him. “They won’t have to pay anything additional. I’ll see to it.” He turns back to address me. “Bailey, when you’re done booking the hotel, can you help Patricia with rescheduling my patients?”
I nod and scurry to take the phone from her.
I have no idea what I’m doing. I need to book a hotel for the patient’s family? Do we normally do that sort of thing?
“How many nights will they be in town?” I ask, gaze flicking back and forth between them.
“Start with four,” Matt answers, tone hard and authoritative, before he picks up his phone.
The afternoon and evening pass in a blur. I barely have time to let Josie know I won’t be home in time for dinner. It’s nearly impossible to find lodging for the Olsens. Hotels are booked, everyone is here to spend time with their family and enjoy the holidays. Matt goes so far as to shout through his door that they can just “damn well stay with him”, but I eventually sweet-talk my way into getting the family a room only a few blocks from the hospital. The price makes my stomach turn, but Patricia assures me it’s fine. I book it with Matt’s credit card then jump on the phone to start rescheduling patients.
Matt has a hell of a time with his task as well. Between our calls, Patricia explains to me in whispered tones that he won’t be able to do the surgery alone. He’s looking for a neurosurgeon to assist. With what June’s body has already endured, he wants to take every precaution.
He’s on the phone trying to call in favors, but like everything else, the holidays are impeding things. Most surgeons have their own cases to finish up before the end of the year. They can’t rearrange their entire schedules, drop everything, and fly across the country to help Matt.
I’m sitting at Patricia’s desk, crossing through patients’ names as I call and reschedule their consultations and pre-op appointments when Matt shouts for me to come into his office.
I jump out of my skin, drop my pen, and hurry inside. He’s pacing by the window, his white coat long forgotten, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. His tie is hanging on the back of his chair and his shirt is unbuttoned just enough for me to catch a sliver of his tan chest.
He rubs his forehead like he’s trying to ease a tension headache and then turns to face me. I’ve never seen him so stressed. His brows are knit together. His jaw is locked tight. “I need you to go see if Dr. Perry is still in his office. He’s down on level three. If so, tell him I need to speak with him immediately.”
I nod and hurry out of the room, fully prepared to mow down anyone who happens to get in my way, but the hallway is deserted. Dr. Perry’s office is dark and empty, which seems strange until I glance down at my watch and realize it’s half past eight. We’ve been going so nonstop I didn’t even realize it was so late.
I drag my feet walking back to Matt’s office. I don’t want to be the one to tell him his colleague already went home. I have a feeling he might accidentally (on purpose) shoot the messenger.
“Dammit,” he says after I tell him, and then he turns to face the window. He props a hand against the glass and stares out at the city covered in a blanket of snow. I’m torn on what to do. Give him privacy? Offer words of encouragement? I want to help, but I have no clue what he needs. He’s been going full speed ahead all evening. It’s a wonder he still has a voice after all the phone calls he’s placed.
I stand immobile on the other side of his desk, giving him the chance to calm down while I desperately try to think of the right thing to say. I don’t want to toss out some hollow phrase like Have no fear! Everything will work out! Because truthfully, I’m a little in over my head here. There’s a pretty good chance this won’t work out.
If he’s aware of everyone’s attention on him, he doesn’t seem to care. He claims an empty table in the corner, drops the files that were clutched under his arm, and makes himself at home. The silence in the lounge continues as I walk to gather my meager lunch and head over to join him. All eyes are on me. I’m sure everyone’s wondering what’s going on, why he would deign to grace us with his presence.
I shake off their attention and try to focus on Matt. If he’s here, willing to talk to me, the case must be pretty important.
I sit down across the table and see he’s already laid out a few pieces of paper for me to read, his lunch forgotten, so I follow his lead and forget about mine too.
“A colleague of mine in Chicago emailed me this morning about an emergent case,” he says, launching straight into work. “A nineteen-year-old female presenting with extreme kyphosis and compression of her spine. She should have had surgery years ago, but her doctors and her parents chose to prioritize her other health concerns.”
I frown and lean forward to read her file. “What other health concerns?”
“Leukemia.” My breath hitches and I glance back up at him. His frown is deep as he continues, “They haven’t completely ignored her spine issues. She’s been wearing a brace for the last year and a half, but it’s no use—”
“She’s too old,” I conclude.
He nods with a grim frown. “Had they used a brace when she was younger, she might have stood a chance at foregoing surgery, but now it’s a necessity.”
“Why now? Why is this emergent?”
He pushes a document toward me, but the mass of words means nothing to me. I don’t even know what I’m looking at. Then one word at the very top of the page jumps out at me: paraplegia.
“Because as of last week, June can’t walk.” My hand flies to my mouth before I can stop it. “The curvature of her spine is extremely severe. She’s complained of numbness and paresthesia in her legs for the last few months. Last Monday, her symptoms intensified to the point of paraplegia. She’s lost all motor function in both of her legs.”
All I can think is, Poor June. To have endured leukemia only to now deal with this.
“What can be done?”
He gathers the papers in a neat pile and I watch as sheer determination sparks in his gaze.
“The paraplegia is a symptom, not a life sentence. Her spine needs to be decompressed to alleviate the pressure on those nerves. Hopefully, after the inflammation goes down, she’ll regain motor function.”
“Is your colleague in Chicago going to take the case?”
He shakes his head. “It’s not his specialty. Even if it was, June’s body has been through hell with chemo and radiation. There are additional risks. Most surgeons wouldn’t take this on.”
But Matt will. He has to.
His gaze meets mine and he must sense what I’m thinking because a moment later, he nods. “Her parents are bringing her here on the next flight out of Chicago. If we’re going to do this, I’ll need your help.”
There’s no hesitation.
I nod emphatically. “Yes. Of course.”
I had no idea what I was agreeing to. The moment I nod, he stands, tells me to gather my stuff, and we head back to his office. Patricia is standing at her desk as we approach, hurriedly writing on a notepad with her office phone pressed to her ear.
When she spots us, she tells the person on the line to hold on, presses the phone to her chest, and then launches into an update for Matt. “Dr. Buchanan is on line one. Dr. Mills says he’ll call you back when he gets out of surgery. Dr. Goddard is still out for lunch, but I’ll try to catch him when he gets back. Mr. and Mrs. Olsen will be on a flight with June from Chicago at 6:45 PM. I tried to get them a room at the hotel across the street, but it’s booked with holiday travelers. I’m talking to another hotel now.”
Matt listens and nods as he proceeds into his office. “Have Bailey take over the hotels. I need you to finish clearing my schedule. Push everyone you can into the new year. They’ll protest—I’m sure they’ve all met their deductibles, but assure them we’ll work with their insurance companies and figure something out.” He continues inside, raising his voice so we can hear him. “They won’t have to pay anything additional. I’ll see to it.” He turns back to address me. “Bailey, when you’re done booking the hotel, can you help Patricia with rescheduling my patients?”
I nod and scurry to take the phone from her.
I have no idea what I’m doing. I need to book a hotel for the patient’s family? Do we normally do that sort of thing?
“How many nights will they be in town?” I ask, gaze flicking back and forth between them.
“Start with four,” Matt answers, tone hard and authoritative, before he picks up his phone.
The afternoon and evening pass in a blur. I barely have time to let Josie know I won’t be home in time for dinner. It’s nearly impossible to find lodging for the Olsens. Hotels are booked, everyone is here to spend time with their family and enjoy the holidays. Matt goes so far as to shout through his door that they can just “damn well stay with him”, but I eventually sweet-talk my way into getting the family a room only a few blocks from the hospital. The price makes my stomach turn, but Patricia assures me it’s fine. I book it with Matt’s credit card then jump on the phone to start rescheduling patients.
Matt has a hell of a time with his task as well. Between our calls, Patricia explains to me in whispered tones that he won’t be able to do the surgery alone. He’s looking for a neurosurgeon to assist. With what June’s body has already endured, he wants to take every precaution.
He’s on the phone trying to call in favors, but like everything else, the holidays are impeding things. Most surgeons have their own cases to finish up before the end of the year. They can’t rearrange their entire schedules, drop everything, and fly across the country to help Matt.
I’m sitting at Patricia’s desk, crossing through patients’ names as I call and reschedule their consultations and pre-op appointments when Matt shouts for me to come into his office.
I jump out of my skin, drop my pen, and hurry inside. He’s pacing by the window, his white coat long forgotten, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. His tie is hanging on the back of his chair and his shirt is unbuttoned just enough for me to catch a sliver of his tan chest.
He rubs his forehead like he’s trying to ease a tension headache and then turns to face me. I’ve never seen him so stressed. His brows are knit together. His jaw is locked tight. “I need you to go see if Dr. Perry is still in his office. He’s down on level three. If so, tell him I need to speak with him immediately.”
I nod and hurry out of the room, fully prepared to mow down anyone who happens to get in my way, but the hallway is deserted. Dr. Perry’s office is dark and empty, which seems strange until I glance down at my watch and realize it’s half past eight. We’ve been going so nonstop I didn’t even realize it was so late.
I drag my feet walking back to Matt’s office. I don’t want to be the one to tell him his colleague already went home. I have a feeling he might accidentally (on purpose) shoot the messenger.
“Dammit,” he says after I tell him, and then he turns to face the window. He props a hand against the glass and stares out at the city covered in a blanket of snow. I’m torn on what to do. Give him privacy? Offer words of encouragement? I want to help, but I have no clue what he needs. He’s been going full speed ahead all evening. It’s a wonder he still has a voice after all the phone calls he’s placed.
I stand immobile on the other side of his desk, giving him the chance to calm down while I desperately try to think of the right thing to say. I don’t want to toss out some hollow phrase like Have no fear! Everything will work out! Because truthfully, I’m a little in over my head here. There’s a pretty good chance this won’t work out.
