Casting Stones
Part 4
Wednesday morning dragged on interminably. It seemed everyone with a case of the sniffles, mosquito bites, athlete's foot, ingrown toenails and nothing better to do had descended upon the emergency room in full force. Brackett was frustrated beyond belief at the nature of the minor complaints. So far, the average duration of his patients' symptoms was ten days, and this morning they suddenly decided they required emergency medical attention. When Brackett asked his last patient why he didn't consult his family doctor about the small rash on his arm earlier, he said he hated to bother him for such a little problem. The man certainly didn't mind tying up valuable ER resources over an insignificant rash!
Hunger pangs gnawed at Brackett, and he felt a little nauseated. Much to his chagrin, he realized he had forgotten to eat, again. No wonder he had a wicked headache. He started to head toward his office to eat a handful of crackers when he was accosted by one of the nurses.
"Dr. Brackett. You didn't finish writing your discharge orders on the last patient you saw," Carol informed him.
"Of course I did." Brackett huffed indignantly, angrily flipping through the chart. "It's right...it should be...well, where the hell is the rest of it?"
Roger Dunn, the physician recently reassigned to cover Early's position, leaned against the desk as he replaced the batteries in his beeper. "Is there a problem, Kel?"
His boss shot him an icy glare as he attempted to scribble the necessary instructions. Brackett's vision was blurry, and his hands were noticeably shaking. He felt like he was going to throw up.
Concerned, Dr. Dunn approached him. "Kel, are you okay?"
Thrusting the now completed chart into Carol's hands, Brackett barked at the young physician. "I'm fine."
"You don't look fine. You look like you've seen a ghost. Are you coming down with something?"
"What?"
Dixie tried to tactfully diffuse the situation. "Maybe you should go to your office and lie down for a few minutes."
"Maybe you should mind your own business," Brackett snapped.
Stunned by her friend's rebuke, she quickly averted her gaze.
Brackett began to feel extremely lightheaded, and the nausea intensified exponentially. He desperately tried to stave off the gray mist that threatened to overtake him, but to no avail. His eyelids fluttered while he swayed precariously for a couple of seconds. Then, the floor abruptly rushed up to greet him.
Tossing the dismantled beeper onto the counter, Dr. Dunn caught the unconscious physician and gently lowered him to the floor. "We need a gurney!" he shouted.
Dr. Dunn's sharp command interrupted her thoughts, and Dixie quickly looked up. The two men were no longer standing at the desk. Regaining her composure, she hurried to Brackett's side. "What happened?"
"He just collapsed. He's diaphoretic. His breathing is rapid and shallow and his pulse is racing." Dr. Dunn helped the orderlies lift the unconscious man onto the gurney. "Let's get move him into Treatment Room 2."
Once the staff had transferred him to the exam bed, Brackett was divested of his lab coat and shirt. Not being familiar with the doctor's medical history, Dr. Dunn directed his question to Dixie. "Does he have any known medical problems or is he taking any medication?"
She grabbed the blood pressure cuff and stethoscope from the wall mount. "He's been taking some over-the-counter antacids for stomach irritation for the past several months."
"Has he seen a gastroenterologist about it?"
"No. He keeps insisting it's probably a case of stress-induced gastritis."
"What is his BP?"
Dixie sighed. "It's 94/68."
Dr. Dunn frowned as he palpated his patient's abdomen. "He's lost quite a bit of weight. Looks like he's been skipping too many meals."
"Yeah, he's really been stressing out over the budget crunch and staffing problems."
"His blood sugar is probably in the basement. Let's get a serum glucose level. He's also dehydrated. Start an IV of D5W." He checked his patient's pupillary responses and mucous membranes. "Let's also get a CBC. With the chronic stomach irritation, I want to rule out the possibility of anemia from a gastric bleed."
Dixie adjusted the tourniquet and swabbed Brackett's arm with alcohol. She was in the process of drawing blood when he began to regain consciousness. Instinctively, he tried to pull away from the source of the pain, but the determined young physician thwarted his efforts.
"Kel, settle down," Dr. Dunn instructed. "Dixie is almost finished."
Opening his eyes, Brackett was utterly confused. "What am I doing here? What happened?" He struggled to sit up, but was restrained by Dr. Dunn's firm hand.
"You passed out at the nurses' station."
Watching Dixie withdraw the needle and label the vials of blood, Brackett protested. "Roger, that's not necessary. I forgot to eat breakfast this morning and got a little dizzy, that's all."
The other emergency physician crossed his arms. "It appears you've been making a habit of that. When was the last time you ate?"
"Uh...maybe around six-thirty yesterday morning."
"So you're telling me you haven't consumed anything but caffeine within the past twenty-nine hours?"
Like a boy who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Brackett tried to adopt an aura of contrition.
Dr. Dunn started toward the door. "I'll get you a Coke or juice, and we'll have someone bring you something from the cafeteria. Dixie is going to start you on an IV..."
"Now wait a minute...I don't need a stupid IV. Let me grab a quick bite and I'll be ready to go back to work in a couple of minutes."
"Ah, I don't think you understand. You're off duty now. I'm admitting you."
Brackett grunted his displeasure. "This is ridiculous. You can't admit me for a syncopal episode."
"You're also physically exhausted and need to be evaluated for gastric complaints."
"I can arrange for that to be done on an outpatient basis."
"Yes, but you haven't," Dr. Dunn countered.
If the beleaguered physician was looking to Dixie for support, he was soon to be disappointed. She simply shrugged her shoulders. "Hey, I agree with the man."
"Traitor."
Rolling his eyes, Dr. Dunn pushed the door open. "I'm going to the vending machine. I'll be right back."
Once they were alone, Dixie brushed a stray strand of hair away from his forehead. "How are you feeling?"
"I have a horrible headache, and you're not helping matters by siding with him," he growled.
"It's not a matter of taking sides. Kel, this is serious. What if you had passed out while driving? You could have had an accident and hurt yourself or someone else, like...like Joe did."
The impact of her words stunned him. He had never thought of it in that light before. That would make him guilty of the same offense for which he blamed Joe. After all, hadn't he been pushing himself beyond his ability to function, conveniently ignoring the warning signs out of a misguided sense of obligation? And how many months had he been consuming antacids because he really didn't want to know what a consultation with a gastroenterologist might reveal? How did he ever determine the only path to his salvation was a punishing work schedule to atone for his sins?
He draped his arm over his eyes lest anyone see the depths of his anguish. What had he done?
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Dixie couldn't believe her ears. After informing Johnny about Brackett's hospital admission, she had expected a more sympathetic response. She was not prepared to for him to bitterly remark that the doctor had gotten exactly what he deserved. "Why, Johnny Gage! That's the meanest thing I've ever heard you say!"
The object of her declaration was unmoved. "Hey, why should I care? It's his fault I'm here in the first place. Okay, his and Dr. Early's. Besides, it's not like either of them have been losing any sleep about me, or keeping a bedside vigil."
"Johnny..." Dixie silently counted to ten, and then to twenty. "You're jumping to conclusions. You have no idea what goes on outside this room."
"Of course I don't! Thanks to them, I haven't been outside of this crummy room in ages. I'm tied to this bed like an experiment in one of those low budget horror movies Chet likes so much."
Although the enforced bed rest had proved beneficial from a physical standpoint, it was contributing to Johnny's worsening disposition. Convinced his life was over, he vented his frustrations on anyone within striking distance, and anyone who wasn't. Fueled by resentment and depression, Johnny continued his diatribe. "So what if Dr. Early is having seizures and Dr. Brackett might have an ulcer? Big deal! They both have choices. Early could have surgery to remove the tumor, and maybe Brackett needs surgery or medication. But I'm stuck here, languishing in this bed..."
Dixie interrupted his exercise in self-pity. "Did it ever occur to you that feeling sorry for yourself is a choice, too? Johnny, your body may be immobilized, but no one is restraining your spirit but you." Her tone softened, and she held his hand. "When you're not too busy sulking, you're a nice guy. I know things must look really hopeless at the moment, but I've never known you to give up before. Don't start now."
Johnny angrily pulled his hand away from hers. "I'm not starting. I've already given up."
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A restless Brackett picked at his IV while the gastroenterologist reviewed his chart. Since his admission a couple of days ago, he had been climbing the walls. As director of emergency services, he was accustomed to providing medical care, not receiving it. The novelty of the experience did not make it any more enjoyable. After Brackett made a clandestine raid on his office the night of his admission, Dr. Mueller had taken draconian measures. His briefcase had been removed from his room, along with several stacks of files, binders and his beloved coffeepot. Determined to make sure his recalcitrant patient rested during his hospitalization, Dr. Mueller ordered hefty doses of Valium during the day, and Seconal at bedtime. Over the past two days, the nurses had been treated to an interesting metamorphosis in their patient's vocabulary and attitude, and by this point, several of them were in dire need of the same medications.
Unable to stand the suspense any longer, Brackett pounded his fist against the railing. "C'mon, Bob. Do I have a hole in my gut or not?"
The prematurely gray-haired man grinned. "A little impatient, aren't you? You must have been a handful when you were a kid. I'll bet you even opened your presents on Christmas Eve."
"That's totally irrelevant. Besides, I didn't need to. I managed to sneak a peek at most of my presents as soon as they were placed under the tree, and then neatly taped everything back in place. How do you think I got such an early start honing my diagnostic skills?"
Dr. Mueller chuckled as he sat in the hideously bright orange vinyl chair. "Oh, so you've always been a challenge." Resting the chart on his knees, he delivered the bad news. "Okay, here's the deal. You definitely have a bleeding ulcer."
"Shit."
"On the bright side, it's relatively superficial, the blood loss is minimal, and surgical intervention isn't indicated at this time."
Brackett's demeanor visibly brightened. "So that's it? I just take some meds and go about my business?"
"That's not what I said." Steepling his fingers, Dr. Mueller rested them against his chin. "Business as usual is what got you here. All work and no play makes Kel a sick boy. You can't live on caffeine and adrenaline forever. If you keep up this frenetic pace and stress level, it will kill you. In addition to the medication and bland diet I'm going to prescribe, you need to cut back on your hours, maybe take some time off."
"Bob, have you completely lost your mind? Do you have any idea what it takes to keep the emergency room staffed these days?"
"Kel, I hate to be the bearer of sad tidings, but you're not indispensable. If you dropped dead tomorrow, life at Rampart would still go on."
Pulling at the IV tape again, Brackett snorted. "Gee, Bob. Your bedside manner is so comforting."
Dr. Mueller was unfazed. "I'm not trying to comfort you. I'm trying to knock some sense into that thick skull of yours." Reaching for the metal chart, he regarded his troublesome patient. "If I release you this afternoon, do I have your word you won't make a beeline for your office?"
"You're letting me go home?"
With a flourish, Dr. Mueller began writing the discharge orders. "Yeah. There's no medical basis to keep you here. Your electrolytes are within normal limits, and we've run all of the necessary tests to confirm the diagnosis. And quite frankly, I'm more concerned about the nurses at this point. The way you've been whining and complaining for the past couple of days, I'm afraid you're going to give them ulcers."
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While his temporary partner was having a minor work-related injury attended to, Roy took the opportunity to enjoy a moment of relative peace and quiet at the nurses' station. Gabriel Martinez was a good man with a big heart, but his constant chatter was driving Roy to despair. Even Johnny's famous rants were more focused and less annoying. Gabriel's conversations tended to drift from topic to topic without rhyme or reason, inflicting a peculiar form of verbal whiplash upon his victims. They were only two hours into their shift on Monday morning, and Roy already had a pounding headache from trying to keep up with Gabriel's convoluted logic.
Plucking a pen from the desk, a harried Dixie closed the drawer with more force than was necessary.
Roy propped his elbows on the counter. "Tough day?"
"You have no idea. I hid Kel's personal coffeepot and restocked the lounge with Sanka, so he's been a real bear today."
"He's back at work already? I thought you said his doctor told him to take some time off."
Realizing the pen was out of ink, Dixie tossed it into the trash can and reached back into the desk. "He did, but Kel is hell-bent on working himself to death out of a weird sense of guilt."
Her words struck a responsive chord. "I'm not sure which is worse. On the other hand, Johnny has completely given up, certain he'll never be able to work again."
"Yeah, and then there's Joe, who apparently doesn't want to work. I don't understand any of this. That damned accident caused a lot more than physical injuries. They're all so busy blaming themselves and each other. What are they possibly thinking?"
Embarrassed, Roy studied his boots. "Uh, I think I understand a little bit."
Dixie looked up from her notes. "Okay, enlighten me."
"After the accident, I felt so helpless. I couldn't wave a magic wand and make everything all better. By blaming myself, I could feel like I was in control of something again."
"Roy DeSoto, that's about the dumbest thing I've ever heard!"
He laughed. "So I've been told."
"I hope you don't still believe that."
"No, a special woman in my life straightened me out." Roy picked up the HT. "It's a shame Johnny, Dr. Brackett and Dr. Early don't have a special woman in their lives to give them a swift kick in the butt."
Leaping from behind the desk, Dixie wrapped her arms around Roy in an enthusiastic hug. "Maybe they do. You've just given me a terrific idea! Thanks!"
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Brackett was sifting through a mountain of paperwork at his desk when Dixie handed him a single piece of paper. Without looking up, Brackett accepted the typewritten letter from his head nurse. "What is this?"
Dixie tried not to look insufferably smug. "It's my resignation. I'm giving you a two week notice."
His face visibly paled. "You can't do that!"
She crossed her arms and jutted her chin out, striking a defiant pose. "I refuse to stay here any longer and watch my friends willingly self-destruct. You're working yourself to death, probably from a perforated ulcer, Joe is refusing to have an operable tumor removed, and Johnny's depression is spiraling out of control. He's refusing to eat or undergo physical therapy. Maybe if I'm not here to witness this mess, it won't upset me anymore."
Seeking to placate his potential ex-employee, Brackett tried to reason with her. "Dix, you don't understand..."
"What is there to understand? That you guys still blame yourselves and each other for the accident?"
"It's not that simple."
"Okay, then explain it me."
Several seconds elapsed while the emergency room physician tried to construct a plausible reason. When none was forthcoming, Dixie tapped her foot. "I'm waiting," she reminded him.
He wildly tossed the letter onto his desk. "Arrggghhhh! You're not playing fair! You changed the subject. What can I do to convince you to change your mind? Do you need some time off? A pay increase?"
The corners of her mouth turned upward in a slight smile. "There is one thing that would make me happy, and it wouldn't cost the department a dime."
Intrigued, Brackett leaned back in his chair. "What is your price?"
"I want you to schedule a group session with Chris Hauser. Obviously since Johnny is still bedridden, you guys will have to meet in his room."
"Whoa, whoa! Wait a minute! You have to be kidding me! You want us to see a shrink?"
Dixie nodded enthusiastically.
"This-this-is...." Brackett stammered as he searched for the right words. "Dixie, this is blackmail!"
"No, Kel. It's the act of a desperate friend. Look, maybe if given enough time, you guys will come to your senses and make amends. But all of you have medical conditions that are complicating this issue. Yes, I know you were having problems with your stomach before the accident, but it's gotten much worse since then. The stress is literally eating you alive. How are you guys going to make your apologies if you succumb to peritonitis from a perforated ulcer, or Joe suffers from a seizure and sustains a brain injury from hitting his head on something, or Johnny blows his brains out because he prematurely gave up on physical therapy and never found out if he could have returned a job he loved?"
"Dix, aren't you being a bit melodramatic? And besides, even if I do make the appointment, I can't guarantee they would be willing to go."
She nonchalantly tucked an imaginary strand of hair behind her ear. "Leave that to me."
"What are you going to do? Threaten them with a letter of resignation, too?"
She picked up the phone and handed it to him. "I'll do my job, and you do yours. Get busy."
Flipping through his Rolodex, he scowled at the spunky nurse. "You're absolutely ruthless."
"Yup, but you never complain when this particular talent keeps your department running smoothly."
With a grand gesture, Brackett pointed toward the door. "Scram. I have a phone call to make."
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A couple of days later, three very unhappy men faced the dreaded psychiatrist with the enthusiasm of lambs being led to slaughter. The atmosphere was tense and hostile as though they were expecting an Old West style shoot-out instead of a group therapy session. Brackett's eyes drifted toward the clock mounted on the wall, and couldn't help but appreciate the irony. It was almost high noon, time for the showdown to begin. Now he had an inkling of what Gary Cooper's character must have felt like, having to face his adversary while his so-called friends looked on.
Johnny suspiciously sized up the intruder. Dixie had told him the psychiatrist was thirty-eight and happily married, but the nurses still shamelessly swooned over him anyway. He could understand why. The doctor was tall, muscular, tanned, had longish sun-streaked blond hair, and looked more he should be hanging out on the beach with a surfboard than practicing medicine. Good grief, the man was even wearing a Hawaiian shirt under his sports coat! Did he come in on his day off, or did he always dress like this?
Early slouched in his chair. Deeply embarrassed by his last hospitalization, he had shied away from Rampart whenever possible. Thus, he was not pleased when a certain head nurse browbeat him into submission and persuaded him to attend today's session. He wasn't sure whether he was angrier at Dixie for badgering him to come in, or at himself for giving in too easily.
Setting his yellow legal pad aside, Dr. Hauser addressed the unwilling participants. "Okay, gentlemen. I've been provided with a brief history, but I want to hear the story from your point of view. I understand there was an accident on October 9th of this year?"
Johnny scoffed. "Accident. That's one way of putting it."
The psychiatrist straightened his tie. "I take it you have another opinion?"
"Damned right I do." Pointing a finger toward Early, Johnny presented his version of events. "He blatantly ignored the warning signs of a brain tumor and didn't bother to tell anyone he couldn't see the broad side of a barn. So when he offered to give me a lift..."
Early fired back. "It's your own fault. If you wouldn't have been whining about needing a ride..."
"Hey, it wasn't my fault I got stranded. I'm not the one who took the squad to the mechanic's."
"But you're the one who was complaining that you were going to miss your precious spaghetti dinner."
"Look, I didn't hold you at gunpoint and force you to drop me off at the station. You volunteered."
"I was only trying the spare the staff from your theatrics," Early shot back. "You were harassing poor Dixie..."
Johnny readjusted his position in the bed. "I was not harassing her. I was just talking. Besides, if I had known then what I know now, I never would have gotten into that car with you. You had no business driving that evening, or any other evening for that matter. Your incompetence and arrogance nearly got us killed."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"You know exactly what I mean. For heaven's sake, you're a neurosurgeon. How could you not know something was wrong?"
The words infuriated Early. "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone! I seem to remember a certain person who once ignored the early symptoms of a life-threatening virus, endangering not only his own life, but the life of the person he was sent to rescue in the first place."
Brackett immediately jumped to Johnny's defense. "Wait a minute, Joe. I almost died of that same virus. In all fairness, it sneaked up on us before we realized what was happening."
Shifting his attention to his colleague, Early sneered. "Oh, come on, Kel. Surely you had some vague symptoms that you probably attributed to another cause at first. Like headaches, perhaps?"
"Yeah, but they didn't last for months. I would imagine those would be a little difficult to ignore."
"You seemed to be content to conveniently ignore them as long as I showed up for work every day and you came in under budget."
"So it's my fault you have a brain tumor?"
"You certainly didn't go out of your way to make sure I received the medical attention I needed."
Brackett was developing a wicked headache of his own. "Since when did I become your keeper?"
"You were my boss," Early growled, "and I thought you were my friend."
"Oh, I see. So as the director of emergency services, am I responsible for the physical well-being of the entire staff? Am I supposed to make sure Mike Morton has an annual physical, and Dixie gets her teeth cleaned twice a year?"
"Stop being absurd! Your pigheadedness is what got us into this mess in the first place."
"Oh, yeah? From where I'm sitting, you've done a pretty good job of contributing to the problem yourself. If you could have set aside your foolish pride and undergone a neurological evaluation months ago, you could have had this problem treated at an earlier stage before the symptoms became debilitating."
"Uh huh. In other words, I would already be back at work to bail you out of the staffing crisis."
Dr. Hauser held up his hands in a time-out signal. "Okay, okay. I get the picture." He chewed on the end of his pen for a moment. "Have you guys been at each other's throats like this since day one?"
Johnny clumsily lifted the Styrofoam pitcher and refilled his water glass. "No. In fact, I tried to cover his butt."
"Whose butt?"
"Dr. Early's. At first I thought the accident was my fault because I didn't steer the car out of the way in time, and then I felt guilty for ratting him out..."
"Hold it, back up a minute. Why did you think the accident was your fault?"
"Because my hands were on the steering wheel at the time of impact."
"And why was that?"
Twirling the straw around in the glass, Johnny reflected back to the evening of the accident. "Because I didn't think Dr. Early saw the car and I was afraid we were going to get hit."
The psychiatrist loosened his necktie. "After the accident, why did you feel the need to cover up for Dr. Early?"
"I thought he was my friend, and I didn't want to get him into trouble."
"So rather than blame Dr. Early, you blamed yourself. Right?"
Johnny took a sip of cool water while he considered the doctor's statement. "Yeah. I figured if he hadn't been helping me out by giving me a ride, he wouldn't have been in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Brackett tiredly rubbed his face. "Johnny, don't do this to yourself. If this was anyone's fault, it was mine. Joe's right, I should have encouraged him to see someone, but he kept reassuring me he was fine, that the headaches were probably stress-related. I know I should have pressed the issue, but it seemed like a logical explanation under the circumstances. I was eating antacids right and left, so it didn't seem unreasonable that Joe would be consuming large quantities of aspirin. I just assumed our stress was manifesting in different ways. Less than an hour before the accident, I finally persuaded him to agree to a headache work up. Then I sent him home, right into harm's way."
The room was silent for several minutes. Finally, Early spoke up in a soft voice. "Kel, if anyone is to blame it's me. You and Johnny are right. I'm a neurosurgeon, and I know better. If only I had...I'm so terribly sorry."
His legs crossed at the knee, Dr. Hauser lazily swung a Doc Marten clad foot. "Hmm. This is all very fascinating, but so far all I've heard is a lot of blame and guilt being tossed around amongst the three of you. But so far, there's one name I've yet to hear mentioned."
Johnny appeared genuinely baffled. "You mean Roy?"
"No. I was thinking about the driver of the other car." Dr. Hauser paused as he flicked a piece of gravel from the sole of his boot. "You know, I have a friend at LAPD who provided me with some interesting information. The driver's name was Ted Marsh, and he was thirty-seven years old. Over the past fifteen years, he was charged with eleven DWIs, three of which resulted in injuries to other individuals. Incredibly, he never spent a day in jail. He served a total of ninety days probation, and after his last offense, his driver's license was revoked."
Early was visibly shaken. "You mean this moron had no business on the street on the first place?"
"That's absurd!" Brackett declared. "He should have been locked up years ago."
Johnny echoed their sentiments. "Yeah. It's a miracle he didn't kill anyone. How could someone let this happen?"
Dr. Hauser leaned back in the uncomfortable vinyl chair. "From a legal standpoint, I can't begin to understand or explain why. For as long as I can remember, drunk driving hasn't been considered a serious crime. Therefore, it isn't aggressively prosecuted under the current system. But speaking from a practical standpoint, there's nothing anyone could have done to keep Mr. Marsh from drinking and driving. He was of legal age, able to purchase alcohol, and even though his license was revoked, he had access to a car."
"Oh, man! That takes the cake. We've been beating ourselves up and blaming each other about this for weeks, and it turns out this idiot had a history of endangering people. Geez! This is out of control!"
Not one usually given to introspection, Brackett's expression grew serious. "Now that I think about it, I remember how helpless I felt that evening at the base station when the call came in. Issuing a few orders to the paramedics seemed so inadequate. I wanted to be there. Somehow assuming responsibility or guilt made me feel I was in control of something again."
Johnny nodded. "I know what you mean. It doesn't make any sense, but I thought I could make everything better if I blamed myself or someone else enough."
Early agreed. "If this would have happened to a patient, I could have spotted it a mile away. It's different when it's you or a friend."
Picking up the legal pad, Dr. Hauser placed it in his lap. "I'm not here to pass judgment, just help put things in perspective. If you guys want to meet again either on a group or individual basis, I'll be happy to set something up."
The neurosurgeon smiled. "I'll think about it. First, maybe I need to schedule an appointment with Sam Vance after the Thanksgiving holidays."
Johnny was astonished. "You're gonna have the surgery? For real?"
"I've been considering it. Besides, I need to get back to work as soon as possible so Kel can take a real vacation. After these past few weeks, the emergency room staff deserves a break from him!"
Brackett feigned mock indignation. "Hmmph. With that attitude, I'll have to give your re-employment status serious consideration."
Rubbing his hands together with pretended glee, Early pondered his style of management. "In your absence, I'll rule the department with an iron fist. I'll even force the hospital administrators to empty bedpans."
"Oooooh. I like your style."
"Hey, I figure it's only fair since they've been slinging crap our way for the past six months. Poetic justice, don't you think?"
Affectionately slapping his friend on the back, Brackett beamed. "It will be great to have you back, Joe."
Johnny displayed his most charming crooked grin. "Hey, Doc. Since you're not supposed to have caffeine anymore, do you suppose I can have your coffeepot?"
Brackett appeared to mull the idea over. "But Johnny, if I did that, you wouldn't have an excuse to pester the nurses."
His colleague concurred. "That's true. Kel, didn't you say only four of the nurses on this floor are married?"
"Three."
This was apparently news to Johnny, and he instinctively combed his hair with his fingers. "What? How come I never noticed that before?"
Rising to his feet, Dr. Hauser winked as he tucked the metal chart and legal pad under his arm. "Gentlemen, if you'll excuse me, I have sick patients who actually need me."
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The day after Thanksgiving, the men of A-Shift gathered in the dayroom after finishing their assigned duties. Mike was helping himself to a leftover doughnut, while Gabriel was muttering various oaths in Spanish as he tried to adjust the television set's antenna. "Hijole! Look at this! There's nothing but blue snow on every channel. What happened?"
Chet gently shoved Henry to one side of the couch and sat down. "The guys from the last shift said a transformer blew last night, and the picture has been like that ever since. That's too bad. There's a great creature feature on at eight tonight."
Abandoning his efforts, Gabriel hastily turned the knob to the off position. "On the bright side, we'll be spared from having to watch another B horror movie."
"You guys have absolutely no appreciation of culture." Stroking his now full mustache, Chet watched the other paramedic pour a tall glass of milk. "Hey, Roy. Did you see Johnny yesterday?"
"No. He said he had other plans."
Marco was perplexed. "Other plans?"
Putting the milk carton back in the refrigerator, Roy grinned. "Yup. Now that he's not confined to bed anymore, he's been more...active. I believe his exact words to me on Wednesday were, 'Don't take this the wrong way, Roy, but if you show up here on Thanksgiving, I'll kill you.'"
"A girl?" Mike asked.
"We're talking about Johnny," Chet answered excitedly. "Sounds like he's gonna be okay."
Ever sensible, Roy urged caution. "It's still too early to tell about his leg, but his attitude sure has improved. He actually wants to get better now."
Chet didn't need to understand the medical gobbledygook regarding Johnny's recovery and rehabilitation. In his heart, he somehow knew it was merely a matter of time before his favorite pigeon was back.
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Studying the new CT scans clipped on the light box, Sam Vance murmured his approval. "Not much growth since the last scan. When do you want to do this, Joe?"
Early nervously drummed his fingers on the armrest. "'Want' is an interesting way of phrasing it, but I suppose the sooner the better."
"Do I sense second thoughts?"
"Second thoughts, third thoughts...yeah. Intellectually, I know that if a person is going to develop a brain tumor, a meningioma has certain advantages. Judging by the size and location, the excision should be pretty straightforward. I'm aware of the potential risks, possibility of recurrence and all of that, but there's a huge difference between performing and undergoing the procedure. To answer your question, I'd like to get this out of the way before the Christmas holidays."
"Great. I have a couple of openings next week." Dr. Vance flipped through the pages of his surgical calendar. "How about Thursday, December 16th?"
Part of him felt like he was scheduling his own execution rather than a surgical procedure, but another part of him realized it was a necessary evil. Early also understood that the sooner he put this behind him, the sooner he could resume a normal life. Normal. Had it only been two months ago today? It was amazing how complicated his life had become within such a short span of time. Mentally nudging himself out of his reverie, he answered the doctor's question. "December 16th will be fine."
Fine.
The word felt wonderful rolling off his tongue.
Everything was going to be just fine.
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
After being confined to bed for nearly two months, Johnny was extremely excited about his newfound freedom. Both casts were gone, and he had begun the grueling physical therapy sessions in earnest. Johnny could tolerate bearing weight on his right leg for short periods of time, although he still needed a walker at this point. However, he felt it was an equitable tradeoff. He decided there were even advantages to his clumsy attempts to navigate the hallways with the metal walker. It added to his rakish charm, and projected a certain vulnerability that members of the female species found irresistible. On more than one occasion, Johnny had deliberately exaggerated his distress in order to elicit sympathy or to get a pretty nurse's phone number. It was almost as effective as a dazzling crooked grin.
Surprisingly, one of his most faithful visitors over the past couple of weeks had been Cookie. A few days before Thanksgiving, she had stopped by to see how he was doing. Johnny apologized profusely for behaving like a jerk on Halloween when he threw her out of his room, but she insisted the incident had long since been forgotten. From her conversations with Roy and the staff at Rampart, she knew Johnny didn't have any family in the area, and wanted to know if he had any special plans for the upcoming holiday. When he admitted he didn't, Cookie offered to spend the day with him. Shortly before noon, she arrived carrying a large picnic basket filled with traditional Thanksgiving foods. In between bites of turkey, dressing and pumpkin pie, Johnny discovered that Cookie loved to go fishing and camping. Her family owned a modest cabin near Lake Nacimiento, and she invited him to spend a weekend with them when he got out of the hospital.
Johnny knew it would probably be a long time before he was able to navigate rugged terrain, but the prospect of being outdoors again made the grueling physical therapy sessions more bearable. In his own way, he was already scaling mountains...one small step at a time.
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
Two days after Early's surgery, his doctor was examining the incision. The sensation of cold air on his scalp was unnerving, and Early instinctively wanted to reach toward the surgical site. A light tap on his fingers thwarted his action.
"Don't touch. If you want to look, we can get a couple of mirrors."
Early considered the offer. "No, I guess not. It would only confirm my worst suspicions that I'm officially a patient."
"An impatient patient at that." Dr. Vance stripped off his latex gloves. "Everything looks great. You'll be out of here in no time."
"How long do you plan to continue the Dilantin? Three months?"
"Probably. We'll play it by ear. You know it works. At least three months before I'd even consider letting you go back to work, and then the six-month mandatory driving restriction. Since the tumor was benign and you won't have to follow up with chemo or radiation, it's reasonable to assume we can stick with that schedule unless you experience seizure activity after we stop the anticonvulsant."
He knew it was irrational, but somehow Early had hoped that being a neurosurgeon would exempt him from the standard recovery protocol. Tugging at his hospital identification bracelet, Early smiled at his surgeon. "Sam, I'm sorry for behaving like a horse's behind. Thanks for everything."
Dr. Vance playfully slugged him on the arm. "No problem. But next time you get a headache, give me a call right away and save everyone a lot of grief."
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
A week before Christmas, Brackett decided he had played by the rules long enough. Indulging in his prerogative as the head of the department, he took a rare day off from work. Armed with a briefcase full of notes, contact names and telephone numbers, Brackett prepared to wage war on the administration department and board of directors. Tired of their apparent indifference to his warnings that the drastic budget constraints could seriously compromise the quality of patient care, the day after Early's surgery he reported his concerns to the Joint Commission on Accreditation of Hospitals. In a desperate effort to obtain additional funding for the emergency department, he also contacted a couple of local philanthropic foundations that had provided generous contributions to the hospital in the past. He was shocked to discover that the Schering and Cavuto Foundations had recently awarded significant sums of money to Rampart within the past year, of which a large percentage of the proceeds were to be allocated to the emergency department. When the administrator, Wayne Rivers, had refused to provide an accounting of the funds, Brackett contacted the organizations to notify them their generous contributions were not being distributed per the terms specified. He was assured an audit would be performed, but thus far, he had not received any further communication from either foundation.
Brackett had also contacted an old friend, now an investigative reporter for The Los Angeles Times, to help him unravel the mystery. During their last conversation, Matt had hinted at some interesting developments, but he wanted to double-check some sources before jumping to conclusions. Flipping through his notes, Brackett found Matt's office number and began dialing.
A slightly harried voice answered. "L.A. Times, Matt Connors."
"Hey, Matt. It's Kelly Brackett. How goes the muckraking business?"
"Oooooh. I'm so glad you called. I've been busy on your little project."
Picking up the phone, Brackett carried it to the kitchen table where his notes were scattered. "Okay, let's hear it."
"I was able to trace some of your missing funds. It seems Wayne and his friends have been busy."
"How so?"
Matt could barely conceal his glee over his accomplishment. "Wayne's been diverting funds to renovate the hospital into some sort of five-star hotel for wealthy patients. He's allocated about two million dollars to convert the lobby into an atrium with skylights, plants, fancy furniture...the whole nine yards. That's not including the twenty-five thousand for the grand piano. He's also converting the entire fifth floor into VIP suites, and even plans to hire chefs to cater to the new upscale clientele."
Brackett pounded his fist on the table. "Clientele? For heaven's sake! Rampart is a hospital. We're supposed to take care of the sick and injured. What the hell is he thinking?"
"Obviously you guys aren't attracting the right kind of patients."
"You mean they're not sick and rich?"
"Something like that. Oh, and by the way, your charitable foundations have been applying some pressure. Once they found out the Joint Commission has flagged Rampart for an audit, they've been making some demands on the board of directors. I don't know when this will all come down, but there's going to be some major housecleaning. Some heads are going roll for this."
Brackett sipped his glass of ice water. He had mixed feelings about the news. On the one hand, he was relieved to finally know what he was dealing with. Yet, he was concerned his activities would cause irreparable harm to the hospital's reputation. "Uh, Matt? How big do you think this story is going to be?"
Matt's disappointment was palpable. "It's not. Like I said, your foundations have been applying some pressure, and they have some very influential friends. It's a damn shame, too. I was really looking forward to that Pulitzer."
"Would it help if I solemnly promised to give you a call when I run across another scandal?"
The reporter erupted into explosive laughter. "Kel, you're the most boring person I know. It's a good thing I don't have to depend upon you for leads or I'd starve to death!"
Arching his back, Brackett rolled his head back and forth to unkink the tension in his neck. "Thanks, Matt. You don't know how much I appreciate you looking into this. If there's ever anything I can do..."
"Yeah, yeah. You can start with providing me with the name of a good psychiatrist to help me get over the loss of my Pulitzer. Take care, Kel."
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
Two days before Christmas, the men from A-Shift gathered in Johnny's hospital room to visit their convalescing colleague. A small artificial tree festooned with popcorn and construction paper garlands stood in the corner. There was an almost Charlie Brown-like quality to the sparse faux pine tree. Fragile branches were weighed down with multi-colored lights and oversized ornaments Roy's children had made or the nursing staff had provided. Somehow the eclectic sight seemed oddly appropriate. The scrawny paramedic tended to bring out the nurturing instinct in people, especially when he was sick or injured.
Chet fingered the tiny plastic bass hanging on the tree. "Hey, Gage. What does a fish have to do with Christmas?"
"It's sort of an I.O.U."
"Huh?"
Johnny grinned at his friend's confusion. "It's from Cookie."
Mike dryly remarked, "That certainly explains everything."
Helping himself to the tin of homemade fudge, Roy snickered. "I dunno. Johnny has a tendency to defy explanation."
Pointing to a snowman on skis, Marco asked, "Where did you get this ornament from?"
"That's from Angela, my physical therapist."
Captain Stanley tossed his empty coffee cup into the trashcan. "John, speaking of physical therapy, how is that coming along?"
The sidelined paramedic shrugged his shoulders. "It's slow, and some days it hurts real bad. My doctor seems to think I'm doing okay though. But he said it might take several months before I'll be in any shape to go back to work as a paramedic."
"So you're planning on returning?"
Johnny appeared bewildered. "Of course. Where did you get the idea that I wasn't?"
While sipping his Coke, his partner was seized by a sudden coughing spasm. "Where?" Roy sputtered. "Gee, I wonder!"
Polishing off a piece of the homemade fudge, Marco reached for another. "What are you going to do until then? Go out on disability or take a desk job?"
"Nah. Brackett said he could probably line something up for me in a teaching capacity. He said the paramedic program might be expanding to allow us to do more stuff in the field." Johnny winked at Roy. "Who knows, I might get a chance to grade you."
Roy groaned. "Does this mean you'll start calling me Junior?"
Digging into his windbreaker, Chet retrieved a small package. "Johnny, I don't want you to get the wrong idea or anything, you know, that I'm getting mushy, but I got you a little Christmas present."
"Why, thanks, Chester B." Johnny eagerly unwrapped the bright red tissue paper, and was puzzled by the strange gift. "Uh, that's really nice, Chet. Chocolate covered Macadamia nuts. I never would have thought of that."
"C'mon, Johnny boy. Haven't you ever had them before? They're a real delicacy."
Johnny lifted the metal lid, and screamed when a cloth snake sprung out of the can. "Chet!"
The unexpected noise startled Marco, and he knocked his soft drink from the bedside table. Marco glowered at his friend. "I thought you said you were going to retire the Phantom."
Chet splayed his hand across his chest. "Don't you see? I only meant that when I thought my favorite pigeon was permanently wounded. Now that I know he's going to be okay, he's fair game."
The firefighter's prank touched Johnny's heart. Yes, the joke was incredibly corny and yes, he was incredibly gullible for falling for it. It was also the first time since the accident that he absolutely knew everything was going to be all right.
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
Despite the tribulations over the past eight months, a festive atmosphere permeated the emergency department. Several nurses and a couple of interns had volunteered to decorate the department during their scarce personal time, and it seemed every doorway and available surface was draped with colorful garlands. Wanting to reward a loyal staff that had endured so many hardships, Brackett reached into his checkbook and issued modest bonuses out of his own funds. In another small token of appreciation, Brackett paid for food to be catered for all three shifts that day. Everyone was infected with the holiday spirit, and the doctor was almost embarrassed by the outpouring of thanks he received.
He was standing at the desk chatting with Dixie when a familiar figure approached. Setting his cup of punch on the counter, he greeted the new arrival with a hearty bear hug. "Pat Hannity, you old dog! What brings you to this neck of the woods, Red? Want to see how real emergency medicine is practiced?"
The copper-haired man grinned. "Practiced? You mean you still haven't gotten it right? Actually, I'm here to work on a contract basis for a while. Our service got a call from your new administrator to line up some short-term help for you guys."
"New administrator?" So Matt's investigation was already paying off. The shake-up in administration had already begun. "Hmm. I wonder if we'll also get some nurses on a temporary basis until we can sort out some budget issues."
"Jeff, our business manager, said he was lining up something with the woman in charge of the nursing division."
Dixie enthusiastically clasped her hands together. "Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus!"
Brackett could feel the burden he had carried for so long finally lift from his shoulders. For some reason, he thought of the character Ebeneezer Scrooge from Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol. The heavy chains that had been forged over the past several months were breaking and falling away, and his heart was filled with joyful anticipation. In a moment of whimsy, he raised his cup of punch and quoted a famous line from the book. "God bless us, every one."
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
In mid-April, Johnny was catching up on some household chores before he started his part-time assignment at Rampart. He was overwhelmed with conflicting emotions. After undergoing a total of three surgeries, enduring weeks in ICU, nearly two months of enforced bed rest, one month in a rehabilitation facility, followed by three months of intensive outpatient therapy, he was finally going back to work, albeit in a different capacity. Although he would be involved in the paramedic program, he still felt a sense of loss. Johnny knew it would be a long time before he could work in the field again, and patience had never been his greatest virtue. Yet, he was also excited about learning and teaching new procedures. As the program had proved its value to the community, paramedics were being entrusted with greater responsibility in pre-hospital care. In a nutshell, he was excited and scared at the same time, and he could hardly wait for Monday morning to arrive.
Johnny was somewhat relieved that Brackett would only allow him to work half days at first. He still required physical therapy on a regular basis, and he was grateful for the accommodation. As he was sitting on the couch folding his laundry, he heard a loud knock at the door. Frowning, he looked at his watch. Roy wasn't due for another five hours to pick him up for dinner, and he had hoped to get some more chores done before then.
Peering through the peephole, Johnny was surprised to see Early. He hurriedly opened the door. "Hey, Doc. What's up?"
Early thrust a large box into Johnny's hands. "Happy Birthday."
"Birthday? My birthday isn't until August."
"Okay, so consider it a belated get well present then."
Accepting the box, Johnny invited the doctor into his apartment. "Can I get you anything to drink? A soda or coffee?"
"No, I'm fine." Looking for a spot not covered in freshly laundered clothes, Early moved a stack of t-shirts aside and sat on the couch. "Aren't you going to open it?"
Johnny set the present on the kitchen table and ripped off the paper. "A stereo?"
"The rest of it is in my car. I can go get it in a few minutes, unless you need the exercise as part of your physical therapy," he joked.
Overwhelmed by the generous gift, Johnny stammered. "Uh...Doc...um...I can't...this is way...I mean, I can't take this. It's too expensive."
Early disagreed. "Johnny, I nearly lost several priceless things this year: my career, my friends and possibly my life. It's the least I could do. I know how much you wanted a new stereo. I'm sorry you never got the chance to win the raffle."
"Raffle? What are you talking about?"
"Don't you remember our conversation in the car before the accident? You said you were almost tied with Dwyer for first place in the annual firefighter's picnic fundraiser."
Johnny slapped his forehead. "Oh, man! I completely forgot about that. But you didn't need to go out and buy me a stereo."
"I know I didn't need to, but I wanted to. Besides, after the amount of money I shelled out for a new car, this was peanuts. Thank goodness Kel's revised budget allows him to pay me a better salary these days."
"New car? Oh, yeah. What did you get? Another Mercedes?"
Early winced. "Heavens no! I don't want to invite bad luck. I got something a bit more...sporty." Blushing, the doctor confessed, "I bought a red Ferrari."
The paramedic's eyes lit up. "Wow. Testosterone on wheels, a real babe magnet." Pulling the curtain back, Johnny was disappointed that the car wasn't visible from his window. "Where are you parked?"
"Around the corner. Do you want to go for a spin?"
An eerie sense of déjà vu came over both men, and an awkward silence followed. They simultaneously recalled that six months ago, they had been seriously injured in an accident the last time the doctor had offered Johnny a ride. Early was the first to speak. "Um, if you don't want to go, I'll understand."
Deciding trust had to begin somewhere, Johnny grabbed his keys and his sunglasses. "C'mon, Doc. Let's go!" Almost immediately, he realized he had repeated the same four words he had uttered just before the two of them left Rampart on that fateful day, when a series of unfortunate circumstances had come dangerously close to destroying several lives. However, through the power of forgiveness, the ghosts of the past had been put to rest. The invisible wounds that had run the deepest and caused so much grief had finally healed. Closing his apartment door, Johnny contentedly gazed at the California sky. It was a beautiful day for a ride.
finis
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