Disclaimer:    Yes, we all know they belong to Mark VII Limited and Universal Television.  But since they haven’t used these wonderful characters in a while, I hope they won’t mind if I borrow them for a little harmless fun.  Bwahahahaha!

Dedication:    To my wonderful medical consultant/beta/muse/co-conspirator, Julie Novakovic R.N. BScN, who held my hand at every step of the way, and graciously (and gleefully!) helped me transform a warped idea into reality.  Thanks from the bottom of my tortured little soul.

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Road to Damascus

(a sequel to Casting Stones)

by:  Satchie

On a sunny June morning, Roy stifled yet another yawn as he and his shift-mates sat around the station’s kitchen table to listen to Captain Stanley drone on and on about the latest changes in administrative procedures.  Just when he was getting used to the last so-called improvements, a bunch of faceless bureaucrats had imposed a whole new system of absurd regulations.  What was it Einstein had said?  Something about never underestimating the stupidity of the general public?  Obviously Einstein had never met the paper pushers at HQ, or he would have held the general public in much higher esteem.  Good grief, it was almost obscene how Headquarters gushed over new forms.  They couldn’t have been more effusive in their self-congratulatory praise than if they had single-handedly brought about world peace, ended hunger and saved a few whales.  Having deemed triplicate carbon forms as insufficient, HQ decreed that most forms were henceforth to be completed in...well...was quadruplicate even a word?  To top it off, the new paperwork even required instructions!  Policy now mandated that all personnel use an extra-fine ballpoint pen with blank ink when completing carbon forms.  Not fine point, but extra-fine.  And was it really necessary to remind them to press hard so that the imprint on the last page would be legible?  Did HQ really assume they were that clueless?

Roy quietly sighed.  He couldn’t possibly fathom how adding an extra copy to a form or changing a color from canary yellow to goldenrod was really going to make a difference in the grand scheme of things, but who was he to complain?  Besides, he wouldn’t lodge a protest even if he wanted to.  That would probably require a form...in quintuplicate.

As Captain Stanley extolled the virtues of the new departmental paperwork, Roy’s eyelids became heavier and heavier.  The words gradually faded into the background of his consciousness into a vaguely familiar mumble -- wha-wah, wha-wah, wha-wah, wha-wah, wha-wha.  It sounded eerily reminiscent of how grown-ups always sounded in those Charlie Brown cartoons that his kids enjoyed so much.

To his chagrin, Cap’s booming voice suddenly became crystal clear as it penetrated through the mind-numbing haze.  “Roy, I’m not keeping you awake, am I?”

Started back to alertness, Roy reflexively straightened his posture.  “Um, no sir.  Sorry about that.”  A chorus of snickers from his coworkers ensued, and Roy flushed with embarrassment.

“As I was saying,” Captain Stanley said in a stern tone, “Headquarters wants all personnel information updated by the end of the month.”

The normally quiet engineer groaned.  “But we filled out that form last month,” Mike complained.

“Let me guess,” Chet interjected.  “HQ has a new form for that, right?”

Unable to keep up the pretense of enthusiasm for the subject any longer, Captain Stanley chuckled.  “You got it.”  He picked up a small stack of papers and displayed them before his unhappy charges.  “Gentlemen, let me introduce you to the new and improved Form PRS-1013, now known as Form PRS-1013-A.  If you’ll notice, this form is now in duplicate instead of a single sheet.  The back page, which is for your personal records, is in a very masculine shade of pink.”

Marco was clearly skeptical.  “I dunno, Cap.  As far as I’m concerned, the words ‘pink’ and ‘masculine’ don’t belong in the same sentence.”

“Hey, don’t blame me.  I’m just trying to put some lipstick on this pig.”  Captain Stanley handed each man a copy of the new form.  “If you think it should be a different color, you can submit a formal suggestion to HQ.  Except don’t use Form SG-1114.  That’s been replaced by Form SG-1121.”

“Don’t tell me,” Johnny mumbled.  “It’s pink, too.”

Captain Stanley tried to adopt an aura of righteous indignation.  “John, I’m totally shocked at your ignorance of administrative matters.  It’s periwinkle.”

“Periwinkle?  What the heck is periwinkle?”

Chet absently stroked his mustache.  “I think it’s sort of a purplish shade of pink.”

Without thinking, Roy automatically corrected his co-worker’s mistaken perception.  “Nah, it’s more of a light purplish blue.”  Aware of five sets of eyes focused upon him, he hurriedly explained.  “Guys, I’m married, remember?  I learn about this stuff whether I want to or not, like six months ago when Joanne wanted to redo the bathroom.  I swear, I honestly didn’t know the difference between lilac and periwinkle.”

“So how many nights did you have to spend on the couch?” Mike teased.

“Two,” Roy admitted.  “I wound up having to repaint the bathroom twice.  Once because I picked the wrong color in the first place, and another time because the walls didn’t quite match the new towels when the paint dried.”

Captain Stanley sympathized with the paramedic’s frustration.  “I hear ya, pal.  I’ve been married for a long time, and I’ve learned a lot of things the hard way.  Like when to say those three magic words.”

Johnny appeared genuinely puzzled.  “Which three magic words?  You mean saying ‘I love you’ gets you out of the doghouse?”

“Nope, but ‘I was wrong’ usually will.”

“But that’s not fair.  What if it’s her fault?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Mike answered.  “Women always think they’re right.  It’s easier to let them have their way than to argue with them.  You’re never going to win.  The deck is stacked against you from the get-go.”

“It’s sort of like dealing with Headquarters, huh Cap?” Chet asked as he traced his finger around the rim of his coffee cup.  “You gotta play along, even when you think something is really dumb.  Like having to complete essentially the same questionnaire twice in less than a month.”

“I prefer to assert my Fifth Amendment privilege on that one.  I’ve worked too hard for too many years to see my pension disappear into thin air.”  Captain Stanley plucked several BIC pens from a small box, and distributed one to each man.  “I’m sure you guys are chomping at the bit to fill out your PRS-1013-A, so here’s your officially approved writing utensil.”

Johnny reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved his green pen.  He fingered it almost wistfully.  “Oh, man.  I can’t believe I’m going to have to give this up.  It’s my lucky charm.”

Roy tried to smooth his partner’s ruffled feathers.  “I don’t think Cap is telling you to get rid of it.  You just can’t use it for official paperwork anymore.”

Johnny refused to be consoled as he accepted his department-sanctioned pen from his captain.  “I still think it stinks.”  He stared at the item with disgust.  “C’mon, Roy.  Look at this puny little thing.  It isn’t going to be sturdy enough.  And uncapping and capping it is going to be a real drag, especially in the field.  A retractable ballpoint pen makes more sense.  It’s only a matter of time before everyone loses the piddly little black plastic cap, and we’ll wind up sticking nekkid pens in our shirt pockets.”

“Nekkid pens?”

“Yeah, a pen without a cap on it.  We’ll stick them back in our pockets, and they’ll leak all over our shirts.  And who do you think is going to pay for the extra charges for removing ink stains?  Shoot, with my luck, I’ll probably spend half of my salary at the dry cleaners, or my pay is going to get docked every time I have to order a new supply of shirts that exceeds my allotment.  And that won’t be cheap.  Maybe we could wear those dorky pocket protectors, that is, if HQ would approve of the uniform modification.  I’m sure there’s a form for that, too.”  Still grumbling, Johnny uncapped his pen in preparation for the inevitable task.

Chet rolled his eyes.  “Oh, good grief, Gage!  Give me your form.  I can probably have it completed before you stop complaining.”  He dragged Johnny’s paperwork across the table and pretended to fill in the blanks.  “Let’s see here.  Name.  John Roderick Gage.  Weird middle name for a weird guy.  Okay.  Sex.  That’s easy.  Never, despite what he leads everyone to believe.”  Chet ignored the indignant paramedic’s vehement protests and picked up where he left off.  “Address.  Usually ‘John’, ‘Johnny’, ‘Gage’ or ‘Pigeon’, but sometimes he’s addressed as ‘Stooge’.  City.  Hmm.  He’s a sit-ee now, but sometimes he’s a stand-ee.  State.  That’s a toughie.”  Chet rubbed his chin as if in deep thought.  “I’d have to say Gage is usually in a state of confusion.”

“Hey, give me that!”  Johnny lunged across the table, but Chet scooted away from him in the nick of time.

Skipping down a few lines, the amused firefighter continued to needle his hapless victim.  “Family doctor.  That’s a really easy one.  Dr. Kelly Brackett, or Dr. Joe Early or whichever one of Rampart’s ER doctors is on call at the time.”

Johnny smugly refuted Chet’s charge.  “Ha!  Shows how dumb you are.  I don’t have a family doctor!”

“Duh!  Of course you don’t.  You’ve never had enough time in-between medical crises to pick a family doctor for routine stuff, say like for a sore throat.”

Startled by Chet’s words, Johnny was rendered temporarily speechless.  Was the little troll psychic or something?  How could Chet possibly know about the sore throat he had been nursing for the past couple of days?  It wasn’t like he had been gargling in the bathroom, or sucking on Sucrets lozenges in plain sight.  How had he accidentally let the cat out of the bag?  Had the timbre of his voice already taken on a telltale gravelly quality?  Had he been clearing his throat more than he realized, or did he seem to be having trouble swallowing?  Or was it merely a coincidence that Chet had picked that particularly malady to illustrate his point?  Johnny frantically sputtered as he fumbled for a response.  “Um...it’s just that...you see...”

“Yeeeeesssss?” Chet prompted solicitously.

Johnny splayed his hand across his chest in a feeble defensive posture.  “I’m basically a healthy guy.  I haven’t needed a family doctor.”

Now it was Chet’s turn to be perplexed.  “What?!  Whaddya mean you’re ‘basically a health guy’?  Gage, you’re a human disaster magnet!”  Chet held up his fingers as he ticked off several examples.  “What about the time when you got exposed to radiation, or caught that monkey virus, or got snake bitten, or got mowed over by a hit-and-run driver, or got pneumonia three times during that first year after you had your spleen removed?  Or what about the time you hitched a ride back to the station with Dr. Early and got hit by a drunk driver?  Dang, Gage.  I think you set a world record for the most injuries incurred in a single MVA.”

Roy shuddered at the memory of the accident.  Less than two years ago, he and Johnny had responded to a simple rescue call.  A college student broke his ankle while participating in a fraternity hazing ritual, and Johnny volunteered to ride in with the patient.  Roy followed behind in the squad, and became concerned when he heard an odd rattling sound under the hood.  He planned to take it to the mechanic for an assessment as soon as he collected his partner from Rampart, but the noise sounded more sinister by the minute.  Roy made what he thought was a logical decision under the circumstances.  First he’d let Charlie, the department’s temperamental mechanic, take a quick peek at the squad.  Then he’d pick up his partner at the hospital.  Besides, he reasoned that Johnny surely wouldn’t object to a little extra time to flirt with the nurses.

Unfortunately, the problem was more serious than Roy anticipated.  Charlie pulled the squad out of service indefinitely until the necessary repairs could be made, and as a result, Johnny was stranded at Rampart until he could hitch a ride.  Since Dr. Early was about to leave for the day, he offered to drop Johnny off at the station on his way home.  They never made it to their intended destination.  A drunk driver ran a red light, plowing into Early’s car and dragging it across two lanes of traffic until it crashed against a concrete construction barrier.

Although Early’s injuries were significant, Johnny had taken the brunt of the horrific impact along the right side of his body.  He sustained a ruptured bladder secondary to pelvic ring fractures, a pneumothorax caused by broken ribs, a fractured humerus, torn ligaments in his knee and a compound femur fracture so severe, the doctors weren’t sure if Johnny would ever walk without a limp or live without chronic pain.  To add insult to literal injury, Johnny succumbed to one infection after another.  Peritonitis set in almost immediately, followed by a bout of pneumonia.  Then when it seemed that matters couldn’t possibly get any worse, he developed osteomyelitis.  Johnny was so sure at one point that his career as a firefighter/paramedic was over, he sank into a deep depression.  However, the infamous Gage stubbornness and tenacity eventually resurfaced, and Johnny sailed through the remaining surgeries and extensive rehabilitation regimen with a remarkably positive attitude.  It had taken almost a year, but Johnny finally returned to work last September.  Had that only been nine months ago?  It was amazing how fast time could fly.

Speaking of which, Roy abruptly roused himself from his reverie and mentally slapped himself for zoning out again.  For crying out loud, this was the second time this morning he had allowed his mind to wander like that.  He shook his head to clear out any lingering cobwebs, and tried to refocus on the present.

Now reoriented to his surroundings, Roy was determined to rescue his partner from Chet’s clutches before the friendly ribbing escalated.  Johnny could be extremely sensitive about certain topics, and Chester B. Kelly had an uncanny knack for saying exactly the wrong thing at the wrong time.  Inevitably, it was Roy who suffered from the fallout as his moody partner alternated between withdrawn sullenness and full-fledged rants throughout the rest of the shift.  If for no other reason than for self-preservation, Roy needed to put a halt to the verbal sparring as soon as possible.

The senior paramedic grabbed the form out of Chet’s hands and growled in what he hoped was a menacing tone.  ”Don’t you have a latrine to clean or something?”

“Nah.  Already done that.  Took out the trash, too.”

“Obviously not all of it,” Johnny scoffed.  “You’re still here.”

Captain Stanley cleared his throat.  “Cut it out, all of you, or I’m sure I can find something to keep everyone busy and out of trouble.”

“Aw, Cap,” Chet whined.  “We’re just having a little fun here.”

“Chet...”

Marco placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder.  “C’mon, mi amigo.  You can help me polish the engine.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Chet asked.

“Because you don’t want Cap to have to write you up for insubordination or whatever HQ is calling it these days.”

Captain Stanley tucked his clipboard under his arm.  “He’s right, Chet.  Trust me, you really don’t want me to have to do that.  That involves paperwork.”  With his free hand, he ran his fingers through his slightly graying hair before adding, “And I have absolutely no idea which form replaced DF-7734.”

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Later that morning, Johnny brooded in the relative sanctuary of the dorm while he mopped the floor.  The fact that there was an element of truth in Chet’s argument bothered him to no end.  Yes, he did have a tendency to get sick or injured a lot, but it wasn’t like he did it on purpose.  Johnny often felt like he was the butt of a cruel, ongoing cosmic joke.  Did he have an indelible bull’s eye painted on his back that made him a target for the capricious fates, or did an unseen thundercloud follow him around like a harbinger of doom?  Had he offended the spirits of his ancestors in some way, and this was his punishment?  Were the experiences intended to build character, or to serve as a catalyst for a spiritual reawakening?  Or was he simply cursed at random, destined to suffer for no particular reason?

Somehow, he could accept perpetual torment if it served a higher purpose.  It seemed oddly appropriate, maybe even noble.  Serious injuries and illnesses made him appreciate things that he tended to take for granted, like his job, friendships and life itself.  But what, pray tell, was noble about a sore throat?  A simple, plain vanilla, garden variety, run of the mill sore throat?  The gentle rapping on the dorm’s doorframe interrupted Johnny’s philosophical musings, and he spun around to face his concerned partner.

“Johnny, are you about done?  We need to run over to Rampart to pick up some supplies.”

“Huh?  Yeah.  I’m done.”  A crooked grin slowly appeared as Johnny picked up his mop bucket.  “Sorry about that.  I was having so much fun, I lost track of time.  Maybe it’s like that runner’s high that I’ve been hearing so much about lately.  You know, where your endorphins really go into overdrive when you’re engaged in vigorous exercise?”

The fair-haired paramedic laughed.  “I’m not sure mopping the floor qualifies as vigorous exercise.  That’s a pretty lame excuse for daydreaming on the job.”

“Oh, yeah?” Johnny challenged.  “What was your excuse for acting like a space cadet this morning during Cap’s lecture on the new administrative forms?  You were in your own little world.  You’re lucky Chet got stuck with latrine duty for the rest of the month after that supply closet fiasco, or you’d probably be on your hands and knees about now, scrubbing the toilet with a toothbrush.”

Roy took a deep breath before he answered.  He didn’t want to explain why he had been so preoccupied, at least not yet.  Even though he knew Johnny had his best interests at heart, Roy didn’t need for his well-meaning friend to inadvertently make a bad situation at home even worse.  Besides, how could he possibly explain the problem when he didn’t really understand it himself?  Deciding discretion was the better part of valor, he decided to change the subject.  “Johnny, are you feeling okay?”

Started by the question, Johnny tightened his grip on the mop handle.  What in the hell was going on?  Had the status of his health suddenly become fodder for the evening news, or had someone taken out a full-page announcement in the Los Angeles Times?  Afraid his expression would give him away, Johnny pretended to inspect the still damp floor.  “Yeah, I’m fine.  Why do you ask?”

“This morning, I noticed you were swishing your coffee around in your mouth before swallowing it, like you usually do when you have a sore throat.”

“Maybe I was just savoring the taste, like those wine testers on TV do.”

“Uh huh.  Could be.  Or maybe you’re coming down something and you don’t want to admit it, especially after Chet was giving you a hard time.”  Since Johnny’s gaze was still averted, Roy took advantage of the distraction and placed his hand on his partner’s forehead and issued his pronouncement.  “You feel warm.”

Johnny swatted at his friend’s hand.  “Of course I feel warm.  I’ve been in here working up a sweat while you were goofing off in the day room.”

Roy wasn’t so easily dissuaded.  “Why don’t you have one of the docs at Rampart check you out while we’re there?”

The ailing paramedic brushed off the suggestion.  “Nah, it’s probably just allergies.  The smog has really been awful this week.”

Roy couldn’t decide who he wanted to strangle first -- his partner for refusing to admit there was a problem, or Chet for teasing Johnny about his checkered medical history.  Well, there was more than one way to skin a cat.  He would drop the subject for now.  However, once they were at Rampart on their supply run, that was another story.  A casual hint to Dixie or one of the doctors, and Johnny would be promptly escorted into the nearest available treatment room.  Feigning nonchalance, Roy shrugged.  “Maybe when we get back, you could take a hot shower.  The steam would probably help.”

Johnny was relieved that Roy wasn’t going to press the issue, and nodded in agreement.  “Yeah.  I might do that.”

“Great.  I’ll wait for you in the squad.”  Satisfied that he had successfully lulled the younger man into a false sense of complacency, Roy inwardly smiled as he headed for the vehicle bay.  Chet was right.  Johnny could be so darned gullible.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

An unenthusiastic Kelly Brackett once again found himself sitting in his gastroenterologist’s private office, waiting to go over yet another set of test results.  He had developed a gastric ulcer nearly two years ago when the emergency department went through a severe budget and staffing crisis.  But Brackett had hoped that once the administrative issues had been resolved, his stomach problems would mystically and magically go away.  Unfortunately, that failed to be the case.  Medication and a bland diet only provided a temporary respite.  Sooner or later, his symptoms always returned with a vengeance.  During his last consultation, the gastroenterologist had recommended surgery, a solution Brackett found less than appealing.  The passage of time hadn’t exactly made him any more enthusiastic about undergoing the operation, but he was resigned to the inevitable prospect.  Brackett fidgeted in his chair while he waited for Dr. Mueller to make the dreaded pronouncement.

The specialist didn’t disappoint Brackett’s expectations.  Dr. Mueller propped his elbows on the massive mahogany desk and steepled his fingers.  “Kel, I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but at this point, surgery is your only option.  Your latest lab work and upper GI look like hell.  I’m surprised that your ulcer hasn’t perforated yet.  With a crater this significant and near a major blood vessel, you’re living on borrowed time, literally.  You have to have this taken care of.”

“I had just hoped...”  Brackett’s voice trailed off as he searched for the right words to express his concerns.  “Look, Bob.  On a clinical level, I agree with you a hundred percent.  The symptoms have gotten progressively worse, especially this past week.  To make matters worse, I’ve even started to have anxiety attacks just thinking about the prospect of surgery.  I know I’ve put this off far longer than I should have, but every time I even consider having the operation, the specter of my father’s death looms large overhead.  It’s only been a little over a year since he passed away, and I can’t shake this irrational, superstitious feeling that if I go through with the surgery, I’m hastening my own demise.”

The lanky specialist removed his glasses and tiredly massaged the bridge of his nose.  “Kel, it’s not quite the same thing.  Your father had serious cardiovascular problems that caused him to develop frequent clots.  Unfortunately, his history of peptic ulcer disease made it difficult to manage his condition.  But he ultimately died from a massive coronary thrombosis, not from a bleeding and/or perforated ulcer.  You know as well as I do that it’s always a delicate balancing act when a patient needs anticoagulants, but an underlying medical problem contraindicates the appropriate treatment.  From what you’ve told me, your father wasn’t able to tolerate even a low maintenance dose of aspirin after his thrombectomy.  His fatal myocardial infarction, while tragic, wasn’t totally unexpected.”

“Yeah, but...”

“But what?”

“You have to concede that his PUD played a significant contributing factor in his death.”

Dr. Mueller leaned back in his burgundy leather chair and chewed on one of the earpieces of his wire-rimmed glasses for a moment.  His tone softened as he tried to assuage his patient’s fears.  “Kel, you don’t have any known cardiovascular disease, and you’re basically in good health, aside from a huge hole in your gut and some serious anemia.”  He thumbed through the small Week-at-Glance appointment book on his desk until he reached the desired pages.  “I could work you in next week on either Tuesday, June 13th or Thursday, June 15th.”

Brackett rubbed the slight stubble on his chin as he mulled over his choices.  “I’d rather do it on Thursday.  That would give me a chance to tie up some loose ends before I take off for a few days.”

“Great.”  After he penciled Brackett’s name in his surgery/consultation appointment book, Dr. Mueller began to fill out the requisite preadmission paperwork.  “Do you want to have your pre-op lab and x-rays done in the ER where it would be more convenient for you?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“A little too close to home there, huh?”

Brackett smiled wanly.  “Yeah.  It’s hard to stay up on that pedestal once the people who report to you find out that you’re only human.”

Dr. Mueller laughed.  “Gotta keep up the pretense of illusion, right?”  The specialist paused as he came to one particular blank on the form.  “Kel, how old are you now?  What, forty-one?”

“Forty-two,” Brackett corrected.

“All right.  I’ll need to order an EKG, too.”

Brackett’s involuntary wince at the mention of the electrocardiogram didn’t escape the surgeon’s attention.  “It’s routine for all pre-operative patients over forty, Kel,” Dr. Mueller admonished.

“Yeah,” he answered without conviction.  “I know.”  Brackett wondered if fate understood that, too.  For some reason, he couldn’t shake an eerie sense of foreboding.  Years of practicing emergency medicine had taught him that nothing was ever routine.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

As Squad 51’s paramedics strode through Rampart’s emergency entrance, Johnny ventured a quick sideways glance at his friend.  Roy appeared way too excited about picking up a few bags of Ringers Lactate and some syringes.  Actually, he looked suspiciously like the proverbial cat that ate the canary, or to be more precise, the paramedic that was about to spill the beans about his partner’s sore throat.  Johnny cringed at the realization.  Oh, shit.  This was exactly what he was hoping to avoid.

Johnny awkwardly fingered the HT while he tried to construct a plausible excuse to avoid an impromptu examination.  He considered waiting in the squad, but he knew that diversionary tactic was rarely successful.  Usually Roy would return to the squad with supplies in hand...and Dixie and one of the doctors in tow.  No, he needed to come up with another plan.  Fast.

The sick paramedic followed Roy to the nurse’s station with the enthusiasm of a lamb being led to slaughter.  He couldn’t help but notice the throng of people crowding the emergency department.  Patients were parked in the hallways on gurneys and wheelchairs, while still others waiting impatiently in the overflowing, aptly named waiting room.  Johnny fought to keep from breaking out into a wide grin.  Of course!  The ER staff was swamped.  They couldn’t possibly waste time on something so trivial as an irritated throat when they already had their hands full with more urgent cases.

Obviously Roy had arrived at the same conclusion.  His shoulders slumped in defeat as he reached into his pocket for the supply list.  In good conscience, Roy couldn’t impose upon an already overworked medical staff about Johnny’s latest malady.  And to be perfectly honest, now he even felt guilty about bothering them with a supply requisition that could have easily waited.  Roy was about to suggest that they come back later when Dixie beckoned them toward the nurse’s station.

She pointed toward the slip of paper in Roy’s hand as they approached the desk.  “Please tell me that’s my ransom note.”

“Ransom note?” Roy repeated.

“You are here to kidnap me, right?  I hope you have a long list of time-consuming demands, enough to stall the police negotiators at least until my shift ends.”

Johnny smiled sympathetically.  “Rough day?”

“You have absolutely no idea.”  Dixie made a grand sweeping gesture of the ER with her arm.  “It’s been like this all morning.  It almost makes me wonder if there’s such a thing as a full moon during broad daylight.”

Roy scanned the overcrowded emergency room again.  “I don’t understand.  Usually if you’re busy, we’re busy.  The squad hasn’t had a single call all morning.”

Mike Morton couldn’t help but overhear the exchange while he finished scribbling a patient’s discharge orders.  The young doctor snorted derisively.  “That’s because most of these people don’t grasp the concept of the term ‘emergency’.  Instead of going to their family doctor, they’re coming here for every little sniffle, stomach bug, hangnail or whatever.  It’s unbelievable.”

Handing the now completed chart to Dixie, Morton resumed his diatribe.  “This guy I just saw really took the cake.  He’s had a sore throat and low-grade fever for the past three days.  So this morning, he decides it’s a matter of life or death.  Doesn’t even try to make an appointment with his family doctor.  But do you want to know what really hacks me off the most?  The damn fool calls for an ambulance to transport him here!  Said he didn’t want to pay for a cab.  Can you believe it?  This guy has done nothing but complain the whole time he’s been here.  He’s been downright verbally abusive.  It’s too bad he’s not suffering from laryngitis.”

Dixie rolled her eyes heavenward.  “Amen to that.  But he was a lot more than just verbally abusive.  After that obnoxious stunt he pulled in the treatment room, it’s a miracle he doesn’t have a broken jaw, too.”  With a sly grin, Dixie added, “On the plus side, he did say that I have nice tits.”

Johnny nearly choked on his own saliva.  “You mean he touched your...”

“Yep.”

Roy let out a low whistle.  “Wow.  What nerve.”

“No kidding.  Now you see why I’m so eager to be rescued.  It’s going to be a loooooOOOOOooooog shift.  Thank goodness tomorrow’s Friday.”

The younger paramedic puffed out his chest.  “You know, we are the best rescue men in all of Los Angeles.”

Roy looked at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand.  “Yeah, but I don’t think filling a supply requisition is what Dix had in mind.”

She eagerly snatched the form from Roy’s grasp.  “I’ll take what I can get.  Anything beats having to deal with Mr. Grabby Fingers.”

While Dixie scampered away to gather the supplies, Morton reviewed his next patient’s chart.  His brow furrowed as he read the triage notes.  “I don’t believe it!  This knucklehead is here for a sore throat, too.”  He angrily closed the metal chart and tucked it under his arm.  “But so help me, if this guy lays a hand on me, I’m going to aim a whole lot lower than Dixie would have.  A broken jaw will be the least of his worries.”

The paramedics exchanged knowing glances and silently made a pact.  They agreed not to mention Johnny’s sore throat, and they would be extremely careful not to accidentally brush up against anyone’s anatomy.  Both men fully intended to finish the remainder of their shift with their masculinity intact.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Johnny cradled the box of supplies under his arm as they headed back to the squad.  He was relieved that he had escaped an impromptu examination, as well as Morton’s ire.  Johnny and the good doctor didn’t often see eye to eye under the best of circumstances.  He shuddered to think about what sort of lecture he would have gotten from the overworked physician if Roy had said anything about his little problem.  Hopefully, Roy had found the encounter with Morton as awkward as he had, and would now quit pestering him about his sore throat.  A gentle pressure on his shoulder was the first sign that his wish was about to go unfulfilled.

Roy hesitated for a few seconds while he gathered his thoughts.  He didn’t want to make Johnny any more self-conscious about his ailment, but at the same time he needed some measure of reassurance that his friend was going to be okay.  Past experience had taught him that Johnny had a tendency to downplay illnesses and injuries, and that little problems that went untreated had a tendency to become big problems.  After what seemed like a small eternity, Roy finally summoned the intestinal fortitude to address his partner.  “Johnny, don’t think you’re off the hook.  You’re going to let me take a look at your throat when we get back to the station.”

“I’m fine,” Johnny protested.  “Really.”

Crossing his arms across his chest, Roy adopted the authoritative stance he assumed when he was about to lecture his children.  “Do I have to get Cap involved?”

“No, it’s just that...”

“Just what?”  When no response was forthcoming, Roy’s tone softened as he tried a different approach.  “Johnny, I worry about you.  Ever since your spleenectomy, you’ve been more susceptible to infections, especially pneumonia.  I’d feel a whole lot better if you saw someone about this.”

Johnny attempted a half-hearted crooked grin.  “Roy, you always worry.  Hell, you were born worried.”

“That may be, but I usually have a good reason to be concerned about you.  Like now.  I suspect that your throat is bothering you more than you’re letting on.”

“That’s not all that’s bothering me,” Johnny muttered.  He immediately regretted his choice of words when he noted the change in Roy’s expression, and Johnny hastened to clarify his statement.  “Roy, it’s not you.  It’s...well, I was thinking about what Chet said this morning.  You know, about me being a human disaster magnet and all.  Trust me, it’s not like I wake up every morning and say to myself, ‘Self, I want to get sick or injured today.’  But bad luck seems to follow me.  Maybe I’m cursed or something.”

Relieved that Johnny wasn’t mad at him, Roy tried to reassure his distraught partner.  “Johnny, I think the only thing you’re cursed with is Chet’s obnoxious behavior.  You can’t let him get to you, especially if that means jeopardizing your health.”

“Yeah, but he probably has a point about me not having a family doctor.  Take today, for instance.  I know you were hoping that one of docs would see me while we ‘just happened to be in the neighborhood.’  If I had a family doctor, I could get non-emergency stuff taken care of without the whole world knowing about every little bug that came my way.  I could make an appointment at the first onset of symptoms and nip problems in the bud.  Who knows?  Maybe I wouldn’t miss as much work because I wouldn’t get as sick.”  Then Johnny remarked with an impish grin, “Besides, I might actually get on Morton’s good side if I didn’t need to be seen so often for minor illnesses, say like a sore throat.”

“Do you have anyone in mind?”

“Not really.  Just someone in private practice.  He’d have to have privileges at Rampart though.  Not that I plan to be admitted anytime soon, you understand.  But since all of my records are there, it would probably be best.”

Roy massaged the back of his neck while he entertained some possibilities.  “Hmm.  Normally, I’d recommend our family doctor, Doc Parker, but he’s not accepting any new patients right now since he plans to retire at the end of the year.  I’m not sure what kind of arrangement he has in the works.  He doesn’t seem to be too keen on outright selling his practice.”

“What does that have to do with not accepting any new patients?” Johnny asked.

“He said it’s not fair to them since they’ll just have to turn right around and find another doctor in a few months.”

Johnny shifted the box of supplies to his other arm.  “I suppose that makes sense.  You hardly have time to get to know him, and then you have to start all over again with someone else.”

The corner of Roy’s mouth twitched.  “If you’re trying to stay low-key about this, you probably don’t feel too comfortable asking anyone from the station or Rampart for recommendations, huh?”

“Right.  Otherwise that would defeat the whole point.”  All of a sudden, Johnny had a flash of inspiration.  “Hey, I know!  My landlady just changed doctors a few weeks ago.  She seems really happy with him.  He practices in that new professional building around the corner from Rampart.”  Johnny seemed immensely pleased with himself as he considered this new possibility.  “Oh, wow.  That would be perfect.  I could sneak in and out for appointments without accidentally running into anyone from Rampart or any of the guys from the department.”

“You almost make it sound like something from a Mission:  Impossible episode,” Roy teased.

In a deep voice, Johnny jokingly intoned, “Your mission, John, should you decide to accept it, is to sneak in and out of your doctor’s office without being spotted by anyone, especially Chester B. Kelly.  As always, should you be caught, you will be the butt of more stupid pranks.  This tape will self-destruct in five seconds.  Poof!”

Johnny excitedly began plotting his course of action as he climbed into the squad.  “When we get back to the station, I’ll call Mrs. Murphy to get the name and telephone number of her new doctor.  Then I’ll see if I can get an appointment with him for tomorrow.”  Johnny realized the flaw in his plan as soon as the words left his mouth.  “Uh oh.  That won’t work.  How am I going to be able to talk to my landlady and the doctor’s office without anyone finding out what I’m up to?  There’s no privacy!  No matter which phone I use, anyone could walk in and overhear my end of the conversation.  The only real safe place would be Cap’s office, but I don't want to explain why I need to use his phone.  Oh, crap.  This isn’t going to work at all.”

Roy slid into his customary place in the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition.  He tried to come up with some alternatives while he waited for his partner to get situated on his side of the squad.  If Johnny was willing to become an active participant in his medical care, Roy wanted to be supportive.  A thought struck him as he shifted the squad into gear.  “Johnny, there’s a 7-11 store on the way back to the station.  You could use their payphone to make your calls.  And while you’re doing that, I could run inside and buy you some throat lozenges.”

Johnny’s face immediately lit up.  “That’s a great idea!  Except maybe some peppermint candy would be better.  Throat lozenges smell too mediciney, and the Phantom would pick up on that in a heartbeat.”

Roy struggled to suppress a smile.  For most people, making a doctor’s appointment would be a simple matter.  For Johnny, it had become a covert operation that required multiple levels of subterfuge.  Roy wondered if he should buy a specially marked box of cereal, too.  At this rate, it was only a matter of time before they would need secret decoder rings, too.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

By a quarter to four that afternoon, Rampart’s emergency room was finally beginning to approach a state of normalcy.  All of the morning’s patients had either been seen or had gotten tired of waiting and left to seek medical attention elsewhere.  Brackett didn’t mind the additional workload, although under other circumstances he would have been just as frustrated as the rest of the staff by the misuse of emergency facilities.  But all things considered, the day had gone better than expected.  Truly urgent cases had been handled in a timely and appropriate manner, and had not been compromised by patients presenting with non-urgent complaints.  Given his anxious frame of mind after his appointment with his gastroenterologist, Brackett was actually grateful for the feverish pace.  It kept his mind focused on the task at hand, thus temporarily preventing him from obsessing about his impending surgery.

However, now that the patient load had dwindled to a trickle, his fears and doubts began to resurface, as well as the searing pain in his stomach.  Brackett glanced at his watch to determine how much time had elapsed since his last dose of Carafate and Tagamet.  Oops.  He had been so busy and preoccupied that he had forgotten to take his medication before lunch.  Come to think about it, he hadn’t eaten lunch either.  Oh, well.  He reasoned that it probably wouldn’t have stayed down anyway.  At least taking his medication on an empty stomach wasn’t going to be a problem now.  Brackett decided to take advantage of the momentary lull to sneak off to his office to down his pills and nibble on a few saltine crackers.  He had scarcely walked ten feet when Joe Early accosted him.

The silver-haired physician motioned toward the doctor’s lounge.  “Kel, do you want to grab a quick cup of decaf before the next onslaught of patients?”

“In a sec.  I need to grab something from my office.”

Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his lab coat, Early followed his friend and colleague like an overeager puppy.  “So what did he say?”

“Who?”

“Bob Mueller.  What did he say when you went to see him this morning?  Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“Oh.  Just the usual.  I need surgery, the sooner the better.”

“And what did you say?  The usual?”

“I agreed to next Thursday, the fifteenth.”

Early stopped dead in his tracks.  “You what?  You set a date?”  He positively beamed at the news.  “That’s terrific, Kel!”

“Yeah, just terrific,” Brackett grumbled.  “I can’t wait.”’  Upon reaching his office, he plopped down in the chair behind his desk and rummaged through his briefcase for the familiar amber medicine vials.

Early didn’t wait for an invitation, and promptly seated himself in one of the chairs in front of Brackett’s desk.  He stared at the stethoscope in his hand, as if it would impart some divine wisdom to convey to his troubled friend.  “Kel, I know you’re not looking forward to this.  No one in his right mind wants to be put under anesthesia and get sliced open.  But the anticipation and fear are usually a lot worse than the actual experience.  I know that was certainly true in my case.  I was scared out of my wits about having to undergo emergency heart surgery.  It was a good thing that everything happened so fast.  That way I didn’t have much time to envision all sorts of worst-case scenarios.  Now the brain surgery was a completely different story.  I had two months to obsess about it.  Trust me, there’s a huge difference between removing a meningioma from someone else’s brain, and having one removed from yours.  For every thing I knew that could go right, I could imagine dozens of things that could go wrong.  But in both cases, I wasn’t thinking like a doctor.  I was thinking like a very reluctant and very scared patient.”

Brackett winced as he choked down the jumbo-sized tablets with a few sips of cold decaffeinated coffee.  It was all he could do to keep from gagging.  But what exactly was he having trouble swallowing?  The pills, the prospect of gastric surgery, or the fear that his father’s fate would soon befall him?  Damn it!  He had to stop these ghoulish ruminations before he developed another full-fledged panic attack.  Brackett could already feel the tightness in his chest starting to build.  He unbuttoned his top shirt button, loosened his necktie and tried to take a deep, cleansing breath.  Several seconds passed before the sensation finally abated.  As soon as it did, Brackett became aware of his friend’s concerned gaze.

Early leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the chair’s armrests.  “Kel, are you okay?  You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“Maybe I have,” Brackett muttered gloomily.

“Or maybe you’re just feeling like a scared patient.  It’s perfectly normal to be apprehensive about undergoing surgery.  Even for doctors.”

Brackett reached into the chest pocket of his lab coat and retrieved a small folded slip of paper.  “I’ve been having anxiety attacks for about a week, and they’re getting much worse.  I’m afraid I’m going to be a nervous wreck by next Thursday.  I told Bob about them, and he wrote out a script for a low dose of Valium.”

“That prescription isn’t going help if you keep carrying it around in your pocket all day.  You need to have it filled.”  Aware of Brackett’s reluctance to take any medication unless it was absolutely necessary, Early felt compelled to amend his statement.  “And, of course, you need to take the medication as prescribed.”

“But Valium will probably make me feel sleepy,” Brackett argued.  “I can’t take this and work, too.”

“So don’t.  It’s almost the weekend.  Take tomorrow off,” Early suggested.  “That would give you three days to adjust the dosage to your tolerance.  Perhaps half a tablet would suffice for your needs without making you feel like a zombie.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m going to take a half day of vacation on Tuesday to get all of my pre-op work done.”

“Why Tuesday?  Why not tomorrow?”

“Because I have an eight forty-five dental appointment Tuesday morning, and I figured I could take care of everything in one fell swoop,” Brackett explained.

Early stood up and plucked the slip of paper from Brackett’s hand.  “Give me that.  I’ll have Dixie take this to the pharmacy and get it filled.  As soon as it’s ready, you’re going to go home, take your pills like a good little patient and get a good night’s sleep.  If you feel hung over from the meds when you wake up in the morning, call me.  I’ll make arrangements for someone to cover your shift.”

Brackett defiantly shot back, “And if I refuse?”

“I’ll sic Dixie on you.”

“Oooooh.”  Brackett scowled at his colleague.  “You’re ruthless.  Whatever happened to the medical dictum, ‘First, do no harm?’”

Early smiled.  “I prefer to think of it as a therapeutic incentive.  Sometimes a little healthy fear can be just what the doctor ordered.”

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

After spending most of the evening battling a four-alarm fire, the men of 51’s A-Shift sat at the kitchen table while they waited to devour the very late dinner that Chet had prepared.  Normally they tended to be skeptical about his culinary skills when he was on another health food kick.  But at nearly eleven o’clock at night when they were exhausted, starving and the acrid stench of smoke still clung to their nostrils, their taste buds tended to be more forgiving.  They watched in rapt attention as Chet set his creation on the table.  “Ta-da!” the proud firefighter proclaimed triumphantly.

Despite his ravenous hunger, Mike wrinkled his nose.  “What is it?”

“It’s a tofu quiche.”

“What, pray tell, is a quiche?”

Johnny frowned as he warily regarded the strange pie looking concoction.  “I’m more worried about what tofu is.  It sounds like medical shorthand for toe fungus.”

Chet urged his shift-mates to be more open-minded.  “Try it, you’ll like it.”

Roy chimed in with his two cents.  “I dunno, Chet.  It’s a bad sign when you quote an old Alka-Seltzer advertising slogan to get us to try something new.”

Not wanting to hurt his friend’s feelings, Marco scooped a small slice of quiche onto his plate.  He tried to put his best foot forward for Chet’s sake as he took a tentative bite.  After what seemed like an interminable period of time, he finally managed to swallow the bland tasting mush.  “Not bad.”

“Notice he didn’t say it was good, either,” Johnny teased.

Captain Stanley helped himself to a slice.  “I’m so hungry, I’ll eat anything.”  He shoved a large glob of the custard-like pie into his mouth, and then promptly spat the foul-tasting mixture into his paper napkin.  “Ack!  Chet, this is awful!  Are you trying to poison us?”

While his captain gulped down a glass of sweetened iced tea in hopes of cleansing his palate of the offending taste, Chet pled his case for leniency.  “But it’s good for you!”

“So is castor oil, but I wouldn’t want to make a meal out of it.”  Captain Stanley carried his plate over to the trashcan and dumped the remains of his dinner.  Once his task was accomplished, he reseated himself at the table.  The sound of a cellophane wrapper being unfurled attracted his attention.  Cap longingly looked at the piece of peppermint candy Johnny was about to plop into his mouth.  “Um, John?  Do you have any more of those?  I can’t get this funny taste out of my mouth.”

“Sure, Cap.”  Johnny reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of peppermints.

Marco nudged Johnny on the arm.  “Could I have one, too?”

Chet stared at his friend.  “Et tu, Marco?”

“Sorry, man.  I know you tried, but maybe next time you shouldn’t try so hard.”

In a bizarre way, Johnny was grateful for the culinary disaster.  He would never willingly admit it, but his sore throat was really bothering him.  However, now that he knew at least one person had noticed that he was having difficulty swallowing, Johnny had become increasingly self-conscious about eating or drinking in front of his shift-mates.  Except for Roy, of course, since he was the one who had pointed it out.  So while Chet was busy with the evening’s meal preparations, Johnny had been trying to figure out how he could skip dinner without anyone suspecting that anything was amiss.  Now since at least two people had openly declared the food unfit for human consumption, Johnny had a valid excuse to refuse to eat.

Exhausted from the evening’s grueling pace and his undiagnosed medical condition, Johnny stretched his arms over his head and yawned loudly.  “I’m beat.  I think I’m gonna go ahead and hit the sack.  I need to rest up.”

“Big plans this weekend?” Mike asked.

“Depends on your definition.  Busy anyway.  My landlady’s granddaughter just graduated from UCLA, and already has a job lined up working for an insurance company.  She’s moving into her first apartment tomorrow.  Mrs. Murphy is giving her a bunch of furniture that she has in storage, and I volunteered to help move some of the heavier stuff.  But I sure wish I had known that her apartment is on the third floor before I agreed to help.  Would you believe the building doesn’t even have a freight elevator?  Then after I finish up there, I have...”

Horrified that he had almost let it slip about his four o’clock doctor’s appointment, Johnny scrambled to cover his tracks.  He faked another yawn as though his extreme fatigue had been the reason for the interruption.  “Anyway, as I was saying, I have to run a bunch of errands afterwards.  Then on Saturday, Roy and I are going to the hardware store to pick up a few odds and ends.”

“Roy, you’re not planning on repainting the bathroom again, are you?” Cap joked.

The paramedic managed a slight smile.  “Nothing that drastic.  I need to take care of some basic household repairs that I’ve been putting off, like installing a new water heater and a dishwasher, replacing some shingles, re-grouting the bathroom tiles and a whole bunch of other honey-do projects.”

“And you cancelled your vacation for that?”

Roy scooped another spoonful of sugar into his iced tea.  “Since it’s going to cost a lot to get everything fixed, we decided that we couldn’t afford all of the home repairs and the trip to Lake Tahoe.”  Almost wistfully, he added, “Maybe we can manage a mini-vacation later.  I don’t want to disappoint the kids.  We’ve always done something every summer.”

Marco rolled his cellophane candy wrapper into a ball and lazily rolled it around on the table with his index finger.  “I wouldn’t worry about it too much, Roy.  Personally, I think big family vacations are highly overrated.  By the time you finish all of the preparation, drive for days to get to where you’re going, try to cram every sight-seeing spot into some ridiculously short time frame, and then drive back home and unpack, you need another vacation just so you can get some decent rest.  Besides, most kids are just happy they don’t have to go to school for three months.”

Mike arched his back to relieve a muscle spasm that had been plaguing him all evening.  “And it’s not like Chris and Jennifer aren’t going to go anywhere this summer.  They always spend a couple of weeks with Joanne’s folks, and every kid loves to be spoiled rotten by their grandparents.  They usually go when, after the Fourth of July?”

Roy rested his elbows on the table and replied almost mournfully, “They left on Monday.  Joanne decided to go with them for a change.  She wanted to spend some time with her mother.”

A slight shiver reverberated throughout Captain Stanley’s spine at the thought of having to spend time with his in-laws, and he empathized with the older paramedic.  “Better her than you, right pal?”

“Yeah.”  Roy got up and scraped the quiche from his plate before putting the dish in the sink.  “I guess I better turn in, too.  ‘Night, guys.”

A forlorn Chet helped himself to another generous helping of quiche while the other men headed toward the dorm.  He glanced at the equally sad looking Bassett Hound lying on the couch.  “Don’t mind them, Henry.  If they don’t appreciate fine cuisine, that’s their loss.  That just means there’s more for us.”

Standing at the doorway, Captain Stanley sternly shook his finger.  “Don’t you dare feed him any of that crap.  I don’t want to have to take Henry to the vet to get his stomach pumped.  There are laws against animal cruelty, you twit.”

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

About an hour before his clock was set to alarm, Brackett awakened from a fitful slumber.  He turned toward the nightstand, his bleary eyes searching in the darkness for the clock/radio’s digital display.  Brackett pounded his pillow in frustration upon noting the time and uttered an impressive string of profanities.  At nearly five o’clock in the morning, it wasn’t even worth the effort to try to fall back asleep.  Brackett almost laughed at the term.  Sleep.  That hardly described the all too brief interludes between nightmares.  Ever since he had reached the inevitable conclusion a few months ago that he needed surgery, ghostly apparitions and portents of doom had inhabited his dreams.

Brackett had decided not to take any Valium before he went to bed, lest they exacerbate his already intense nightmares.  Now he was beginning to question the wisdom of his decision.  Brackett wasn’t sure he possessed the physical and emotional endurance if today’s workload was as heavy as it had been yesterday.  He thought about heeding Early’s suggestion that he take the day off.  Then he could take the antianxiolytic medication without fear it would cloud his professional judgment or impair his motor skills.

The prospect was oddly tempting.  He could lounge around his apartment in his pajamas all day, burrow under the covers, catch up on some recreational reading and allow himself to drift into a lazy slumber.  Ah, yes.  "To sleep, perchance to dream..."

Brackett immediately bolted upright, his heart racing at the thought of more terrifying nightmares.  Unwilling to take that chance, Brackett crawled out of bed.  He desperately needed the distraction of work.  If he hurried, he could be at Rampart in less than an hour, and with any luck, it would be another hectic day.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

When one of Station 51’s B-Shift paramedics hadn’t reported for duty by eight o’clock on Friday morning, Roy had secretly hoped that he would be asked to work another shift.  He was sorely disappointed when Jim Thornton breezed through the door fifteen minutes later, complaining of the horrific traffic about two miles from the station.  It wasn’t so much a matter of money as it was one of companionship.  With Joanne and the kids gone, the house seemed empty and devoid of warmth.  They had even taken the dog with them to his in-laws’ house.  Not that Roy felt any particular affinity for Scooter.  He had always hated that slobbering mutt.  However, like all good parents, he tolerated the butt-ugly creature because the kids adored him.

Now alone at home with only his gloomy thoughts to keep him company, Roy would have gladly welcomed Scooter’s annoying antics.  He aimlessly wandered from room to room.  His family had been gone for only four days, and he felt utterly forsaken.  What if Joanne followed through on her threat to file for divorce?  How was he going to feel if they never came back?

Roy opened the refrigerator, hoping to find some leftover comfort food.  Instead, he found only a stick of butter, a few condiments and a six-pack of beer.  Joanne didn’t even have the decency to pick up a few groceries before she left.  And now she was gone, and she had taken his family with her.  Even the damned dog.

If it hadn’t been so early in the morning, Roy would have grabbed a beer and sat on the sofa to wallow in his misery.  However, his conscience wouldn’t allow him to consume liquor before noon.  He was about to close the door when he heard a soft thud of something hitting the floor.  Roy instinctively looked down, and his gaze fell upon a snapshot from last year’s vacation.  For the past year, Jennifer’s garish plastic sunflower magnet had secured the photograph to the refrigerator door, right next to the homemade calendar of family events and the kids’ activities.  As Roy picked the picture off the linoleum tile, the image of their once happy family seemed to mock him, and tears welled up in his eyes.

A lump formed in Roy’s throat as he reopened the refrigerator and grabbed a cold Budweiser.  After all, it was after noon somewhere.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Shortly before noon, Rampart’s emergency room was positively inundated, and like the day before, many of the patients presented with only minor illnesses and injuries.  Brackett had hoped that a busy schedule would temporarily take his mind off of his problems, but the current situation was proving to be more stressful than helpful.  Resources were overtaxed, patients and their families took their frustrations out on the staff, the staff was about ready to mutiny and Brackett was seriously considering going back home and hiding under the covers until the insanity had passed.

To make matters even worse, he had absolutely the worst case of indigestion he had ever had in his life, and he felt perilously close to succumbing to a full-fledged panic attack.  The tightness in his chest had grown progressively worse, and he was bordering on hyperventilation as he waited at the base station for Squad 24 to provide an update on their patient.  As much as he hated to do it, Brackett resolved to take half of a Valium as soon as he wrapped up this call.  Then maybe he’d reconsider Early’s offer to arrange for some unsuspecting victim to finish out the rest of his shift.

Brackett leaned against the desk and rubbed at his chest again.  The clock showed that only a few seconds had ticked by, but from his perspective, time seemed to stand still.  Finally, a split-second of static on the line signaled that the transmission was about to resume.

“Rampart, patient is now alert and oriented times three.  New vital signs are as follows:  BP is 130/70, pulse 72 and respirations 20.”

Brackett grunted his acknowledgement.  “24, start an IV of Normal Saline and transport as soon as possible.”

If the paramedic on the other end of the line signed off in the usual manner, Brackett never heard it.  The gassy sensation beneath his sternum suddenly exploded into an excruciating pain that radiated to his left arm and jaw.  Brackett staggered backward, clutching at this chest and gulping for air.  Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead as he struggled to fight off a wave of nausea.  He felt extremely light-headed, and for a moment he thought he was going to pass out.  Brackett reached for the counter for support, but his hands clutched only at empty air.  To his surprise, it was not his life that flashed before his eyes as the slumped face down toward the floor.  It was the ghost of his father.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Bracing the telephone receiver against his shoulder, Early was about to call the radiology department for a report when he saw Brackett abruptly crumple to the ground.  He dropped the receiver on the desk and rushed over to his friend’s side.  “Kel, what happened?” Early asked as he knelt down and turned Brackett onto his back.  “Is it your stomach?”

Brackett shook his head.  “Chest hurts...can’t breathe...feel sick...”

By now, the doctor’s collapse had attracted the rest of the staff’s attention, as well as that of a nearby paramedic.  A flurry of activity immediately ensued.  One of the student nurses raced down the corridor to find Dixie and Morton while Early quickly performed a preliminary assessment.  The orderly who procured the gurney had barely rolled it up to the base station and set the wheel brake when the staff lifted Brackett onto the thin mattress.

Brackett was only vaguely aware of being moved into the treatment room and onto the examination table.  The crushing chest pain had become the focal point of his entire existence.  A flood of emotions overwhelmed him as he labored to breathe.  Fear that he was about to die, shame because he was afraid, self-recrimination for not recognizing the significance of symptoms earlier, guilt for not being at his father’s side when he died of a massive coronary thrombosis and remorse over other unfinished business.

Early’s firm, but compassionate voice penetrated through the haze of pain and fear.  “Kel, where exactly is the pain?  Can you show me?”

Brackett lifted his right hand to his chest.  “Here...under the sternum...thought it was my ulcer at first...bad indigestion...at base station a minute ago...felt like an elephant sitting on my chest...can’t breathe...”

Early gently squeezed his friend’s shoulder.  “We’re going to take good care of you.  I need for you to relax, okay?”  He looked up at the petite raven-haired nurse as he reached into his pocket for his stethoscope.  “Judy, let’s patch him into the monitor and get a set of vitals on him.”

The treatment room door swung wide open as Morton and Dixie entered.  They were both shocked to see Brackett lying on the exam table -- pale, diaphoretic and gasping for breath.  Morton was the first to regain his professional composure.  “What happened?  Is his ulcer bleeding?  Did it perforate?”

“There’s no discernable abdominal distension.”  Early purposely stood in front of the monitor, effectively blocking Brackett’s view.  He studied the squiggly lines on the screen while Morton looked over his shoulder.  “He’s complaining of chest pain and shortness of breath.”

Morton’s mouth formed a silent ‘O’ as the seriousness of the situation sank in.  He glanced back at Brackett, then his attention shifted to Judy as she deflated the blood pressure cuff.

“BP is 160/90, pulse is 110 and respirations are 24,” she reported.

Early turned toward Dixie.  “Administer 3 liters of oxygen by cannula, nitro q 5 minutes x 3, start an IV of Normal Saline TKO and a second line with a Heparin lock for IV access.  I want an EKG, ABG, CBC, chem panel, sed rate, CPK, SGOT and LDH stat.”

In his panicked state, Brackett fought Dixie as she tried to place the cannula prongs under his nose.  “Gonna die...just like Dad...”

Dixie’s eyes widened at the implications of what he had just said.  He was already assuming the worst.  When her coos of reassurance failed to calm him, Dixie tried a different approach.  She admonished her patient in a stern tone.  “Kel, we’re trying to help you, but you need to settle down.”

“That’s easy...for you...to say,” Brackett panted.  “You’re not the...one dying of a heart attack...like Dad...first an ulcer...now this...scared...”

“I know you’re scared,” Early replied kindly.  “We’re going to give you something to help you relax, but you need to stop fighting us.”  Early addressed Dixie in a low voice as she slipped the nitro tablet under Brackett’s tongue.  “Give him Valium 2.5 mg. IV push as soon as you get the line in.”

Brackett frantically pulled at Early’s lab coat with his free hand while Dixie swabbed the crook of his other arm with a cold alcohol swab.  “Joe...I need to see the monitor...know...the truth.”

“Not now, Kel.  Maybe later.”

“But I’m a doctor...need to know...how it looks,” Brackett protested.

“You’re a patient right now,” Early reminded him.  “You need to let us do our jobs.”

The door opened to admit the EKG technician.  He rolled his cart over to Brackett’s side and started attaching electrodes to his chest, arms and legs.  Satisfied that everything was properly hooked up, the tech instructed Brackett to be still and not talk during the test.  Then he started the recording while Early and Morton peered over his shoulder.  Once the tech had completed his task, he turned off the machine and began disconnecting the leads.

Early scanned the printout and then looked back at his patient.  “Kel, has the chest pain started to dissipate yet?”

“No...still hurts...”

“We’ll give you another nitro tablet and see if that helps.”

A tall, slender woman poked her head inside the treatment room as the EKG technician was leaving.  “Judy said you guys ordered a chest x-ray?”

Early greeted the x-ray technician as he handed the printout to Morton.  “Mel, I need this developed stat.”

Wheeling the portable machine beside the examination table, Melinda cheerily responded.  “No problem.  Your wish is my command.”

Dixie forced a smile as she injected the Valium into the IV port.  “Kel, we need to step out in the hall for a minute while Melinda takes your picture.  Okay?  We’ll be right outside if you need us.”

“’kay.”

Dixie brushed Brackett’s hair away from his forehead in a familiar, comforting gesture.  His haunted expression spoke volumes.  How were they going to help him when Brackett was utterly convinced that he was doomed?

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Outside in the hallway, Morton was still trying to absorb what had just happened.  A perforated ulcer, although serious, would have been expected under the circumstances.  However, Brackett’s current symptoms appeared to come out of left field.  Or did they?  There was something about Early’s pensive demeanor that suggested there was more to the story.  Morton finally broke the tense silence.  “I don’t understand.  Kel doesn’t have a history of cardiovascular disease or any of the usual risk factors.”

“But his father died of a coronary thrombosis,” Dixie reminded him.  “They couldn’t adequately treat the underlying clotting disorder because of his peptic ulcer disease.”

Realization finally dawned on Morton as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place.  “I had completely forgotten about that.  No wonder he’s so agitated.  He’s afraid history is about to repeat itself.”

Early grimly nodded.  “Obviously an MI would be a stressful event for anyone, but this is one case where Kel’s medical knowledge is going to work against him.  He’s seeing too many parallels between him and his father.”

“So what are you going to do?  Sedate him and hope you can keep him in the dark as much as possible?

“I don’t see that we have a choice.  If he’s not having an MI now, he’s going to give himself one.  I don’t want to make his fear become a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

Morton grudgingly agreed.  “I see your point.”

Early frowned as he remembered something Brackett had said the day before.  “You know, yesterday Kel mentioned that he’s been having severe anxiety attacks for the past week or so, and that Bob Mueller had given him a prescription for Valium to take on a p.r.n. basis.  I didn’t think anything about it at the time, but now I’m starting to wonder...”

Dixie immediately picked up on his train of thought.  “You’re wondering if he didn’t recognize the attacks as angina because he automatically assumed the symptoms were anxiety related.”

“Exactly.”

As was her habit when she was worried, Dixie tucked an imaginary strand of hair behind her ear.  “I hate to even bring this up, but how is Kel’s ulcer going to factor into all of this?  I mean, how much longer can he wait to have the surgery?  What if...”

“One crisis at a time,” Early chided.  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.  Who’s on call for cardio?”

“David Chan,” Morton answered without hesitation.

“I’ll call David for a consult, and then I’ll contact Bob Mueller so he’s in the loop.  Once we get everyone on the same page, I’m sure everything will work out fine.”

Somehow, the encouraging words seemed based more on wishful thinking than reality.  Dixie had a terrible feeling that it wasn’t going to be that simple.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Scrunched between the oversized armoire and the iron railing, Johnny and the other three volunteer movers took a quick break from their labors on the last half landing of the winding staircase.  The scorching heat of the midday sun was unbearable, and the men mopped at the rivulets of sweat that poured from their brows.  If Johnny had known that nearly every piece of furniture was going to weigh a ton, he would have thought twice about offering to help Mrs. Murphy’s granddaughter move to her new third-floor apartment.  Then again, maybe not.  The paramedic had a soft spot in his heart for grandmotherly landladies, although Chet probably would have called it being just plain gullible.  Speaking of which, Johnny wouldn’t mind getting soaked by one of the Phantom’s water bombs about now to help him to cool off.  He’d even settle for an occasional breeze.  Johnny supposed he should be thankful that Katie Murphy had moved into an apartment complex where the staircases were on the outside of the building.  The temperature in an enclosed, poorly ventilated stairwell would have been stiflingly hot.  Fortunately his duties as a Good Samaritan were almost over.  Once they finished getting this oak monstrosity up the stairs, there was only one more piece of furniture that awaited them in the rented U-Haul trailer.

Like the other men who had been recruited for this unpleasant chore, Johnny swung his arms back and forth over his head to shake off the growing muscle fatigue and numbness.  The armoire was so heavy that they had to stop and rest at each half landing of the twisting staircase until they could feel their arms again.  Johnny found it oddly amusing that as the eldest member of the group at the ripe old age of thirty-one, he was in better physical condition than Katie’s three college buddies, including Boomer Tomjanovich, the former UCLA linebacker.  It almost made up for everyone insisting on addressing him as Mr. Gage.

Tony wiped his sweaty palms on his tattered blue jeans.  “Everybody ready to keep going?”

Steeling himself for the challenge, Reggie took a deep breath and exhaled loudly.  “Let’s do it.”

The four men hefted the massive armoire off the landing and slowly inched their way up the remaining eight steps.  Katie kept up her reassuring patter while they continued their arduous ascent.

“You’re doing great!” she gushed.  “That’s it, a little bit more.  Almost there.  Keep going.  Only seven more steps now...”

It wasn’t that the men didn’t appreciate her animated efforts, they did.  Her voice was simply drowned out by their grunts, groans and occasional curses as they dragged the wooden behemoth up the stairs.  Katie squealed with delight when they finally reached the third floor.  “Oh, wow!  You did it!  You guys are the best!”

After they set the armoire down on the narrow walkway, Boomer leaned against the ornate wrought-iron railing and wiped his face with the hem of his T-shirt.  “Thank God that part’s over with.”

Katie resumed her self-appointed role of cheerleader as she gestured toward her open apartment door.  “Just a little bit more.  You’re almost there.”

“There had better be an ice-cold Pepsi waiting for me in there,” Reggie jokingly warned.  “I do expect some payment for my services.”

Tony wrapped his arms around the bane of their existence and pretended to weep.  “I can’t believe it’s almost over.  We’ve been through so much together.  I can’t bear to leave you.”

Boomer laughed and gave his friend a hearty slap on the back.  “Maybe you should propose to it.  Most of your relationships don’t last this long.”

“Where did your grandmother get this thing anyway?” Tony asked.

Katie twisted her thick auburn hair into a knot before re-securing it against her head with an oversized barrette.  “Nana bought it for next to nothing at an estate sale years ago.”

“I can believe it.  They probably couldn’t pay anyone enough money to move it, and figured it was easier to sell this piece of...um...fine craftsmanship.”

Johnny flexed his arms again to make sure he still had the full use of his upper extremities, and then proposed that they finish the task at hand.  “C’mon, guys.  Like Katie said, it’s only a few more feet to her apartment, where air conditioning and hopefully Pepsi await us.”

“Air conditioning?” Boomer repeated.  “Hell, what are we waiting for then?”

On the count of three, the men lifted the armoire one last time and carried it across the threshold of Katie’s apartment.  They weren’t sure who was more excited when they finally set it down on the designated spot in the living room, them or Katie.  Their energy spent, they searched for someplace to sit down and rest.  Unfortunately, the most logical choice, namely the sofa, was still safely ensconced in the rented U-Haul trailer.  Everyone flopped down on the first available surface within view and waited for Katie to come back with something cool to drink.

Reggie groaned from his position lying atop the coffee table.  “I don’t even want to think about how sore I’m going to be tomorrow.”

“No joke,” Tony complained.  “I’m already in some major pain.  My arms hurt, my back hurts, my legs hurt, my hair hurts...”

“How can your hair hurt?”

“I dunno, but it does.”

Johnny smiled as the men in the full bloom of youth complained about their aches and pains.  He didn’t have the heart to tell them that it only got worse with the passage of time, and after an injury or two...or three or four or five.  Johnny waxed nostalgic about the good old days, before he became a human disaster magnet, when he could crawl out of bed on a rainy day and not feel a pang or twinge from an old wound or a broken bone.  No doubt he was going to spend the weekend curled up with a heating pad and a bottle of aspirin after today’s exertions.  But for now, he’d gladly settle for something to quench his thirst.

His wish was soon granted when Katie returned, bearing gifts of cold drinks and small individual sized bags of potato chips and Fritos.  The young men appeared to devolve into cavemen as they devoured the refreshments -- spilling crumbs onto the floor, noisily slurping their sodas, crushing the empty aluminum cans on various areas of their anatomy and staging a belching contest.  By comparison, Johnny’s deplorable table manners would almost make Emily Post proud.

Boomer wadded an empty potato chip sack into a ball and tossed it in the general direction of an empty box that served as a makeshift trashcan.  Then he stood up and rhythmically patted his stomach.  “All fueled up and ready to go.  Day light’s burning.”

Tony pulled himself off the floor while trying to muster a semblance of energy and enthusiasm.  His slow movements belied his cheery tone.  “Up and at ‘em.  Rah, rah, rah.”

The tired men were slightly reinvigorated by the caffeine fix and the salty snacks, as well as the knowledge that they only had to lug one more piece of furniture up the stairs.  The more they thought about it, everyone agreed that the oversized sofa should be a piece of cake after moving the heavy, antique armoire.  So much so, that it was decided that two men could easily handle the job.

Everyone was in a celebratory mood as the last item was unloaded from the U-Haul and hefted up the stairs.  Boomer took the lead, carrying his end of the sofa up first.  Katie walked a few steps ahead of him, once again offering moral support along the way.  They had almost reached the last few steps when Johnny felt a sickening crunch under his feet.  Then the surface suddenly disintegrated into a shower of dust and debris, leaving only an empty space inside the black metal support frame.

Johnny could feel his body start to rotate to the left and downward, and he instinctively let go of the sofa to try to regain his balance.  But his right foot caught between the strips of metal that had framed the thin concrete step only a second ago.  His ankle twisted at an unnatural angle as he tumbled backward, and Johnny wanted to cry out in pain as the middle of his back slammed against another concrete and steel stair step.  However, the force of the blow knocked the wind out of him, robbing him of his ability to scream.

Boomer gasped in horror as the sofa began to slip away from him.  He tried to hang on as long as he could, but his arms were too fatigued to manage the unwieldy object by himself.  In the periphery of his vision, the former football player saw Reggie and Tony bound up the stairs to help him, but Boomer knew they weren’t going to make it in time.  Before they reached the first half landing, the sofa escaped Boomer’s grasp and bounced down the stairs until it landed on top of Johnny.

“Oh, my God!” Katie screamed.  Her first inclination was run to the injured paramedic’s side, but she couldn’t get around the obstruction barring her path.  She yelled at the still stunned Boomer.  “Get it off!  Get it off!  Move it!  Throw it over the stairs if you have to!”

Reggie and Tony carefully lifted the lower end of the sofa off Johnny while Boomer regained his grip on the other end.  Then they froze as they tried to figure out what to do next.  Reggie looked up and down the staircase for inspiration, but finding none, he deferred to Katie.  “Which way should we go?  Back down?  Or do you want us to toss it?”

Johnny had finally recovered from the initial shock of his less than graceful descent, and joined the conversation from his supine position.  “No, upstairs,” he ordered.  The corners of his mouth turned upward as he parroted Katie’s earlier remarks.  “Just a little bit more.  You’re almost there.”  Then he added dryly, “But watch that middle step.  It’s a real doozy.  By the way, did anyone get the license plate number on that sofa?”

Katie didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.  A minute ago she was afraid they had killed Johnny.  Now he was cracking jokes while lying at the bottom of a flight of stairs.  Well, after what they had just done to him, Katie was determined to cater to his every whim.  If Johnny wanted the sofa on the roof, then by God, they would find a way to get it there.  She pointed toward her apartment door and smiled through her tears.  “You heard the man.  It goes upstairs.”

While Katie’s college buddies cautiously navigated up the damaged staircase with their burden, Johnny experimentally flexed his fingers and toes and cautiously performed a cursory neuro assessment.  He was enormously relieved when everything seemed to check out satisfactorily.  Even the pain in his back and ankle were subsiding to a near tolerable level.  Johnny started to sit up, but Katie thwarted his attempt.

“Don’t move, Mr. G.,” she scolded.  “I’m going to go call the fire department.”  Katie then slapped her forehead as a thought occurred to her.  “Damn it!  What am I saying?  The idiots at the phone company screwed up, and I won’t have a working line until Tuesday.”  Katie berated herself for Johnny’s predicament.  After all, it was her fault that Johnny fell down the stairs, and now she didn’t even have the means to summon help.  She’d have to run to the leasing office to borrow their phone.  Overwhelmed by guilt and frustration, Katie began to cry.

Johnny’s heart sank as he realized that she was blaming herself for his accident.  The confident young woman of only a few minutes ago now looked like a lonely, frightened little girl.  Johnny knew the consequences of misplaced guilt all too well, and he resolved to spare her that unpleasant experience.  In a performance worthy of an Academy Award, Johnny stood up and displayed his most charming smile for Katie’s benefit.  “I’m all right, see?  There’s no need to call the fire department.  Besides, you’re already looking at the best firefighter/paramedic in the county.  And if I say I’m okay, I’m okay.”

Katie wiped her tear-stained face with the back of her hand.  “I could drive you to the hospital.  I don’t mind.  You must really be hurting.”

Johnny reached into his back pocket to retrieve his handkerchief.  Then he pressed the folded piece of cloth into her hand and gave her a comforting hug.  “Katie, don’t worry about it.  This little spill is nothing.  I get into all kinds of scrapes at work, but I’m like a Timex watch.  I take a licking and keep on ticking.”

“I’d feel a whole lot better if you’d let me take you to Rampart and have the doctors take a look at you,” she persisted.

A trip to Rampart might make Katie feel better, but it was exactly what Johnny was hoping to avoid.  He offered what he hoped would be an acceptable compromise.  “Look, I already have an appointment to see my regular doctor this afternoon at four, so I can have him look me over while I’m there.  All right?”

Mollified by his proposal, Katie nodded as she blew her nose.  “If you’re sure.”

Johnny mentally patted himself on the back for his brilliant idea to start seeing a family doctor for these types of situations.  He hadn’t even seen this guy yet, and he was already reaping the benefits.  Johnny replayed the words “family doctor” again in his head several times.  The phrase had such a nice ring to it.  He was thoroughly convinced that this was going to be one of the best decisions he had made in a long time.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

During the past forty minutes or so since his collapse at the base station, Brackett had become oddly grateful for the persistent pain in his chest.  It helped him to fight off the powerful, sedating effects of the drugs coursing through his veins.  Sleep was a luxury that he could not afford.  He had to remain alert and vigilant, or else he would soon be forced to cross the river Styx and join his father in the land of the dead.  Brackett struggled to sit up on the exam table as a means of shaking off the mounting lethargy that threatened to overtake him, but a slight pressure on his chest pushed him back against the table.

Dixie gently pried his fingers from the railing and held his hand in hers.  “You need to calm down, Kel.  We’re trying to help you, but you have to help us, too.”  He mumbled something, but Dixie couldn’t quite understand him.  She leaned closer and asked him to repeat what he had just said.

“Going to die...just like Dad,” Brackett lamented, his speech thick and slurred from the pain medication.

Dixie wanted to scream.  It was as if a broken record was playing a morbid mantra over and over again in his mind.  She hated to see him so agitated, and checked the time to see if he was due for another dose of Valium or morphine.  Dixie silently uttered a mild oath when she saw that he wasn’t.  She wasn’t sure if her disappointment was on his behalf or hers.

Brackett lightly squeezed her hand.  “Don’t leave me...don’t want to face death alone.”

She was torn between pity and exasperation.  “Kel, stop it.  We’re going to do everything we can to help you get better.”

“Speaking of ‘we’...where is Joe?  Talking about me...behind my back...so I can’t hear...how bad?”

Dixie surreptitiously noted the time again.  Only five more minutes remained before she could make another attempt to drug him into oblivion.  She pretended to straighten a kink in his IV line with her free hand while she changed the subject.  “How is the pain?”

“Still there...maybe a little better...not sure.”  Brackett shifted his position slightly so that he had a better view of the door.  “Who’s he...talking to?”

“Who?”  Dixie hoped that playing dumb would make him drop his line of inquiry.

“Joe.”

Obviously not.  “David Chan,” Dixie answered reluctantly.

He grimaced at the news.  “Must be bad...if the best cardio guy at Rampart...”

Dixie quickly interrupted him.  “David was asked to consult because he’s the cardiologist on call this week, that’s all.”  The exchange was fortuitously cut short when the treatment room door swung open to admit Joe and a fifty-something-year-old man attired in scrubs and a freshly starched lab coat.

Brackett dislodged his hand from Dixie’s and clutched at his chest.  “David...what’s the story?”

Dr. Chan subtly nodded in greeting.  “Hey, Kel.  I hear you’ve had an eventful morning.  How are you doing?”

“I thought you...were supposed to tell me that.”  Brackett stared pointedly at Dixie and Early.  “They won’t.”

The cardiologist studied the electronic tracings on the monitor.  Like the rest of the staff, he didn’t plan to disclose many specifics regarding Brackett’s condition at this juncture.  “You have some mild ST-segment elevation and a couple of other EKG changes that indicate the need for further evaluation, especially in view of the persistent chest pain after multiple doses of nitro and morphine.  I’ve already contacted the cath lab and set up an angiogram.”

“Surgery?” Brackett asked in a tentative voice.

“I don’t know yet,” Dr. Chan honestly replied.  “We’ll have to wait and see what the angio shows and go from there.”  Noting the increase in Brackett’s heart rate, Dr. Chan recalled what Early had told him about the anxiety attacks and Brackett’s peculiar notion that he was going to die in the same manner that his father had.  He directed his question to Dixie.  “How much Valium has he had?”

“We’ve given him a total of 7.5 mg IV in the last forty minutes,” she answered.  “His last dose was fifteen minutes ago.”

“Go ahead and administer 2.5 mg IV before we move him upstairs.”

Brackett tried to grab the IV port so that he could keep them from injecting any more medication into his system.  “No more drugs...don’t want to sleep...won’t wake up.”

Pushing the intended target safely out of Brackett’s reach, Dr. Chan sought to allay his patient’s fears.  “We’re just going to give you a little bit more Valium to help you relax before we move you upstairs to the cath lab.”

Dixie swabbed the IV port as she prepared to inject the sedative.  “Don’t worry, Kel.  I’ll stay with you until we get you transferred.”

“No, don’t,” Brackett pleaded.  “I’m afraid...don’t want to go.”

Early walked over to the far corner of the treatment room and motioned for Dr. Chan to join him.  He usually hated to pull rank and ask for special favors, but he was willing to make an exception this time.  “David, I hate to ask, but could Dixie stay with him during the angiogram?  It might help to alleviate some of his anxiety to have a familiar face around.  She won’t get in the way, I promise.”

Dr. Chan readily agreed.  “No problem.  I don’t want to have to sedate him any more than I absolutely have to.”  Returning to the other side of the room, the cardiologist relayed the arrangement to Dixie as she charted the updated set of vital signs.  Her face immediately brightened at the news.

She interlaced her fingers with Brackett’s and whispered into his ear.  “It’s okay, Kel.  I’m going to go upstairs with you.  I won’t leave you alone, do you understand?”

Brackett blinked back a tear and muttered, “Not like Dad now...won’t die...alone.”

Never before had Early felt so helpless, or seen his best friend appear so lost and frightened.  Brackett was convinced that the Grim Reaper was waiting in the shadows to claim him, and his only consolation seemed to be that Dixie would be with him until the very end, not that they might actually be able to help him.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

It was nearly two o’clock when Johnny finally returned to his own apartment.  Katie and her friends had begged him to stay and join them for pizza and beer, but he needed to get cleaned up and make himself presentable for his doctor’s appointment.  He hadn’t planned on being gone for so long, but Johnny had to run a couple of errands after leaving Katie’s apartment.  His first priority had been to pick up his uniforms at the dry cleaners.  Otherwise, he would have been forced to report for roll call on Monday morning in nothing but his birthday suit and a smile.  Then on his way home, he stopped by a little mom and pop pharmacy to buy some throat lozenges.  The elderly woman who waited on him had been in a very talkative mood, and Johnny thought he would never be able to make an escape.  Now he only had about an hour and a half to grab a bite to eat, take a shower, sneak in a catnap and possibly do a load of laundry before he had to leave for his appointment.

Johnny couldn’t decide which item on the agenda deserved his attention first.  The Pepsi and two individual-sized bags of Lay’s potato chips he had consumed at Katie’s apartment were nothing but a faint memory now, and his stomach growled loudly to remind him of that fact.  His clothes were saturated with sweat, he smelled like a pig, his muscles screamed in protest at the abuse he had subjected them to earlier, his back and ankle were sore from his tumble down the stairs, his ribcage was a bit tender and his throat was really starting to kill him.  Decisions, decisions.

A nice hot shower seemed like the most efficient use of time.  Johnny reasoned that it would soothe his irritated throat and relieve the painful muscle spasms at the same time, thus killing two birds with one stone.  His ankle throbbed with each agonizing step as he limped toward the bathroom, and he was almost tempted to take his shower fully clothed to avoid having to move any more than necessary.  As an added bonus, he could wash his clothes while he lathered up.  Talk about wash-and-wear!

Tempting as the idea was, Johnny resigned himself to having to strip naked.  He removed his sweat-drenched T-shirt and wadded it into a ball.  As he tossed the garment on top of the laundry hamper, Johnny caught his reflection in the mirror.  He twisted his torso to get a better view, and was stunned by the large area of bruising that had already begun to form in the middle of his back.  Damn, no wonder it hurt so much!  He was definitely going to need to put some ice on that as soon as he finished showering.

Johnny unzipped his fly and slipped his jeans over his hips.  In deference to his sore back, he held onto the counter for balance and kicked off his pants legs one at a time so he wouldn’t have to bend over.  At least his right ankle was in marginally better shape, although it still hurt like the devil.  It was already starting to sport an impressive array of bruises, but they paled in comparison to the ones on his back.  He cautiously flexed his ankle, grimacing as he rotated it back and forth.  Judging from the degree of discoloration and swelling, he figured it was probably a mild to moderate sprain.  Johnny silently cursed himself for not taking the time to look at it earlier.  Then he could have picked up an ACE bandage while he was at the pharmacy.  It was okay, though.  He’d be at Dr. Grant’s office soon enough and he’d let them worry about wrapping it up.  Right now, he desperately needed that shower.

He could barely stay awake as the hot water cascaded over his aching body.  Only a few hours ago, Johnny had felt so full of vim and vigor when he put the college boys to shame with his physical strength and endurance.  Now he was starting to wonder if he had overdone it just to prove to something to himself or to his younger audience.  Every muscle in his body hurt.  Even though Johnny hated to take medication, he was almost praying that Dr. Grant would write him a prescription for a few Tylenol #3s or some muscle relaxants.  Preferably both.

After Johnny finished his shower and changed into a clean T-shirt and a pair of boxers, he hobbled to the refrigerator.  His next priority was to feed his complaining stomach.  Unfortunately, there wasn’t much in the fridge that didn’t look like a failed science experiment.  He’d have to settle for a bowl of cereal without milk until he could get to the grocery store sometime this weekend.

Johnny opened the cupboard and reached for the box of Cornflakes on the top shelf.  He immediately cringed when a particularly severe muscle spasm flared up.  Since a second attempt yielded exactly the same result, Johnny abandoned his nutritional requirements in favor of pain relief.  However, the folly of his plan to create a makeshift icepack immediately became obvious when he spotted the empty trays in the freezer.  Crap.  He had meant to refill them, but had forgotten all about it after getting absorbed in a TV show the other night.  Okay, he’d try Plan B.  Surely he had a bag of frozen peas or something that would suffice for his purposes.

To Johnny’s dismay, a quick inventory of his freezer only turned up a box of Birds Eye frozen broccoli spears and a half-empty package of waffles.  Johnny eyed the broccoli suspiciously.  How in the heck did that get in here?  It wasn’t exactly something he would have purchased for himself.  Usually the only time he could choke the little green tree-looking thingies down was when Joanne disguised them in some sort of casserole with chicken and wild rice, and even that was a challenge.

Too tired to care about his stomach or his back, Johnny retrieved his alarm clock from the bedroom and set it to go off at three-fifteen.  That would give him forty-five minutes to brush his teeth, get dressed and drive over to Dr. Grant’s office.  Johnny set the clock on the coffee table, and then stretched out on the couch to watch cartoons.  It seemed that he had scarcely closed his eyes when a loud ringing awakened him with a start.

Johnny slapped at the clock several times, but the obnoxious noise wouldn’t stop.  It eventually dawned on him that it was his phone that was ringing, and he stumbled across the room, hitting the toes of his good foot on the base of the solid brass floor lamp in the process.  “Oh, shit!” he screamed as he picked up the receiver.

A feminine voice on the other end of the line answered.  “Excuse me?”

Still nursing his injured digits, Johnny hastily apologized to the woman.  “Oh, man.  I’m so sorry about that.  I stubbed my toes just before I picked up the phone.”

The woman seemed equally contrite.  “Oh, dear.  Now I really feel awful.  This is Laurie from Dr. Grant’s office.  You had a four o’clock appointment this afternoon...”

“Had?” Johnny repeated.  “As in the past tense?”

“Yes, sir.  I’m so sorry, but Dr. Grant got called out on an emergency a few minutes ago and I need to reschedule all of his afternoon appointments.  I could work you in on Monday morning.”

“Monday morning?  But I really needed to see him today.”  By now, the throbbing in Johnny’s toes had subsided slightly, but the relief did little to alleviate his disappointment.

“I’m so sorry,” Laurie reiterated.

“Does Dr. Grant have...um...what do you call it?  An associate or partner who sees his patients when he’s not available?”

“’Fraid not.”  Laurie shuffled through the pages of the appointment book.  “Let’s see, you were coming in for a sore throat, right?”

“Uh huh.  That was the original plan,” Johnny ruefully admitted.  “But this morning I fell down some stairs while I was helping someone move and I got banged up pretty good.  Mostly my back and ankle.”

“Ouch.  Maybe you should go to the emergency room.”

That was the second time today that someone had tried to persuade Johnny to go to the emergency room, and the idea didn’t seem any more appealing now than it had the first time.  He wondered what good it did to have a family doctor if he wound up having to go to the ER anyway.  If it was at all possible, Johnny was determined not to seek medical care at Rampart if he could help it.  He did not want to give the Phantom any more ammunition than was absolutely necessary.

Johnny turned his wrist and stared at his watch.  At three o’clock on a Friday afternoon, he probably had about as much chance of a snowball in hell of getting an appointment with another doctor before Monday morning.  He plucked the ballpoint pen from the pencil holder that Roy’s kids had given him for his birthday and searched for his notepad.  “What time on Monday?”

“I could work you in at eight forty-five, nine-thirty or eleven-fifteen,” Laurie offered helpfully.

Resigned to the delay, Johnny sighed.  “Then put me down for nine-thirty.”

“Terrific.  We’ll see you then.  Bye.”

Johnny wasn’t happy at all about the inconvenience, but what else could he do on such short notice?  Besides, this sort of thing probably happened all the time.  Doctors had patients, and patients had emergencies.  That was how it worked, right?  So then why did he have second thoughts just because his first appointment had to be rescheduled?  Somehow, it just seemed like a bad omen.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Shortly before the end of his shift, the young mother in Treatment room 4 was sorely testing Early’s legendary calm demeanor.  He was usually very patient with anxious parents, but this first-time mother was driving him to despair.  No matter what he said to reassure her, she was convinced that her three-year-old son was in mortal peril, and that no one was doing a darned thing to help him.

“Surely there’s something you can do!” she insisted.

Early drew his shoulders back to emphasize his six-foot frame, as if the authoritative stance alone would persuade the woman to see his point of view.  In a strained tone, Early reiterated his position.  “Mrs. Johnson, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with Robby.  He’s perfectly fine.  There’s no need for any of the invasive procedures that you’re proposing, or any reason to keep him here.  I’m discharging him from our care effective immediately.”  Early hastily scribbled the necessary orders in the chart as he plotted a quick getaway.

The red-faced Mrs. Johnson shook her finger at the beleaguered doctor.  “Look here, mister.  I called Robby’s pediatrician as soon as this happened, and she told me to get him to the emergency room on the double, that accidental poisoning is a life-threatening situation.  Now that we’re here, you won’t pump his stomach or give him some Ipecac or anything.”

“I just spoke with Dr. Lunney over the phone,” Early responded tersely.  She said you told her that Robby had gotten into some household poison.  Ma’am, with all due respect, there’s a world of difference between ingesting corrosive cleaning chemicals and eating a few bites of Purina Dog Chow.”

Mrs. Johnson stammered.  “But...but...but he could have gotten rabies, or the mange or some other horrible disease from eating food out of the dog’s bowl!”

A loud rap on the treatment room door interrupted the heated debate.  Early quickly turned around, surprised to see Brackett’s gastroenterologist beckoning him toward the hallway.  The tall physician seemed almost apologetic for the intrusion.  “Joe, do you have a minute?”

“Sure, be right there.”  Early handed the now completed medical chart to Judy and headed toward the door.  He cast a meaningful glance at Mrs. Johnson, and spoke in a tone that tolerated no argument.  “The nurse will go over the discharge paperwork with you.”

Dr. Mueller couldn’t be sure, but he could have sworn that Early heaved a sigh of relief as he exited the treatment room.  He offered a sympathetic smile as he gestured toward the doctor’s lounge.  “Sorry.  Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Not really.  It’s just been a rough day, and I don’t seem to be getting through to this kid’s mom.”

“What’s the problem?”

As they headed toward their destination, Early tucked his pen back into his pocket.  “Oh, the kid ate a few pieces of dry dog food.  The mom is convinced that her little angel is at death’s door and that we’re heartless sons of bitches who aren’t lifting a finger to help.”

Dr. Mueller chuckled.  “Dog food?  That’s it?  My youngest son did that when he was about three or four.  He went through a phase where he wanted to be a dog, so he went around the house imitating everything our Golden Retriever did.  I wasn’t too thrilled about him mooching food and water out of the dog’s bowls, but it was better than getting irate phone calls from the neighbors.”

“Did he mooch from their pets’ bowls, too?”

“Nope.”  Dr. Mueller grinned sheepishly.  “They didn’t appreciate Danny peeing all over their lovely plants.”  Upon reaching the doctor’s lounge, he pushed the door open and immediately headed toward the coffee pot.  “Care to join me?” he asked as he retrieved a couple of ceramic mugs from the shelf.

“I don’t suppose there’s any decaf left, is there?”

Dr. Mueller made a face.  “Don’t tell me you have stomach problems, too.  Or are you one of those health nut kooks who thinks it’s some sort of warped virtue to consume crappy tasting stuff?”

Early hastened to clarify both erroneous assumptions.  “Actually, I’m more prone to migraines during the summer months, so I try to eliminate or reduce as many triggers as I can.”  He added with a wry smile, “Of course, that’s not always entirely possible.”

The tired gastroenterologist poured two cups of real coffee and handed one to Early.  He took a long swig from his mug before broaching the reason for his visit.  “I saw Kel a few minutes ago.”

“How is he doing?  David called me right after the angiogram, but I haven’t had a chance to make it to the ICU yet.”

Dr. Mueller made a seesaw motion with his hand.  “Physically he’s doing as well as can be expected.  Mentally...well, that’s a completely different story.  Kel is really fighting off the sedation, which is obviously going to complicate matters from my perspective.  I’m afraid that ulcer is going to perforate before I can get my paws on him to do the surgery.”

Early stirred his coffee.  “Hopefully there won’t be that much of a delay.  Since the blockage was limited to a small distal branch of the right coronary artery, Kel should stabilize fairly quickly.”

“Yeah.  David said that if everything goes as well as he expects it to, I could probably operate in another week or two.  The problem is, I’m not sure how long Kel can wait.  In addition to the coffee-ground emesis that he’s been vomiting up for the past few weeks, his hemoglobin has dropped slightly and his last upper GI is the pits.  I’m afraid that the additional stress of the MI and his preoccupation with his father’s death is going to greatly exacerbate the situation.”

Early was having trouble getting past of Dr. Mueller’s statement.  “Coffee-ground emesis?”

“Sorry.  I thought you knew that.”

“No,” Early replied sadly.  “Kel’s not exactly the type to volunteer information, especially information of that nature.”  He studied the faint swirls of undissolved non-dairy creamer in his coffee as if he were reading tea leaves to divine his friend’s future.  “So what’s the plan?  Load him up with cimetidine, sucralfate and diazepam, cross our fingers and hope for the best?”

“Pretty much.”  Dr. Mueller leaned against the counter and took another sip of coffee.  “You know, maybe Kel’s neuroses are starting to rub off on me, but yesterday when he finally consented to the surgery, I had a sneaking suspicion that things weren’t going to go off without a hitch.  But I never imagined that he’d have an MI, even a minor one.  He’s sure full of surprises.”

Early agreed.  “Let’s just pray he doesn’t have any more surprises in store for us.”  However, he had an eerie premonition that there would be a lot of nerve-wracking moments before Brackett’s ordeal was over.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

By nine o’clock that evening, Johnny was absolutely miserable.  There was scarcely a spot on his body that didn’t hurt, and he shuddered at the knowledge that he was going to feel a lot worse before he felt better.  Past experience had taught him that muscle soreness tended to peak about twenty-four to forty-eight hours after strenuous physical exertion.  Johnny looked at his watch to gauge his progress.  Terrific.  At this rate, it would probably be at least another fourteen hours or so before his aches and pains reached their zenith.  Oh, joy.  Oh, thrill.  Oh, rapture.

Two doses of aspirin and three hot showers later, Johnny had still failed to find any significant relief from the painful muscle spasms.  He finally acknowledged the possibility that he might be more seriously injured than he realized, and conceded that perhaps a trip to the emergency room might be in order after all.  Johnny tried to call Roy several times, but all he got was a busy signal.  He was a little disappointed that his best friend and partner wasn’t available to take him to Rampart, especially since he didn’t feel comfortable asking any of the other guys from the station to give him a ride.  Unless he was at death’s door, Johnny did not want them to know about his latest misfortune.  He was tired of being teased about his extensive medical history, and didn’t want to add any fuel to the fire.

Johnny briefly considered taking a cab to the hospital, but then he remembered how busy the emergency room had been with non-urgent cases.  Once he got there, he could have to cool his heels for hours in one of those notoriously uncomfortable waiting room chairs.  That would probably make his back feel ten times worse, if that was even possible.

Supporting the middle of his back with his left hand, Johnny stumbled into the bathroom to see if he had anything stronger than aspirin in his medicine cabinet.  He rummaged through half-used bottles of Pepto-Bismol, Kaopectate, Robitussin cough syrup and various other over-the-counter remedies until his gaze alit upon a familiar amber vial.  Yessssssssss!  He still had a few Tylenol #3 tablets left over from when he had his root canal about six months ago.  He’d just take a couple of these and sack out on the couch and watch television.  With a little bit of luck, he could doze through the worst of the spasms until he could see his doctor on Monday.  It was worth a try.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Roy awakened in his La-Z-Boy recliner to the deafening blare of the television set.  He didn’t remember the sound being turned up that high when he fell asleep during the evening newscast.  Or maybe the noise only seemed loud in contrast to the unnaturally quiet house.  As he massaged a painful crick in his neck, he noticed that the last remnants of sunlight had surrendered to the dark, depressing cloak of night.  The flickering glow of the television set dimly illuminated the deplorable condition of the living room.  His unfinished Swanson TV dinner still sat on the folding metal tray beside the recliner, dirty clothes and newspapers rendered the couch inaccessible and the floor was littered with half a dozen empty beer cans from the day’s drinking binge.  Roy knew he should do something about the mess, but at the moment, he couldn’t summon the energy to do anything about it.  Ever since Joanne and the kids left, Roy felt trapped in a strange emotional purgatory -- too numb to care, and yet not numb enough.

He had tried to call Joanne at her parents’ house several times earlier in the evening, but no one ever answered.  The combination of anger, frustration and alcohol finally took their toll, and he hurled the phone against the wall.  Now all he had to show for his trouble was a broken phone and a sizeable hole in the sheetrock.  But those problems could be easily fixed.  How did one mend a broken heart?

Roy wanted to confide in Johnny about his marital problems, but he was afraid that if he divulged his embarrassing secret, it would be like opening Pandora’s box.  Part of him wanted to cling to the fantasy that if he didn’t say a word to anyone, everything would magically work out and he could pretend the whole sordid mess had never happened.  However, he was all too aware that divorce was looming on the horizon, and it was only a matter of time before everyone knew it.  Roy was deeply ashamed about his separation from Joanne.  It made him feel like a failure as a man.  He couldn’t understand why she had been so unhappy with him lately.  After all, didn’t he earn a decent living to provide for her and the children?  Wasn’t he a faithful husband and doting father?  What more could Joanne possibly want?

Until Roy decided whether or not to tell Johnny about his dilemma, he would have to find solace elsewhere.  He lifted the bottle of Jack Daniel’s to his lips and took another generous swallow of whiskey.  Maybe if he got drunk enough, he could forget about the emptiness that had encroached upon his soul.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

On Saturday morning, an exhausted Early rubbed his eyes again as if the activity itself would somehow restore his flagging energy.  He and Dixie had agreed to take turns sitting with Brackett until he was more lucid and calm.  It seemed that no amount of medication could adequately alleviate their friend’s fears, and only their mere presence seemed to provide some small measure of reassurance.

Early’s back felt like it was going to snap in two as he shifted his weight in the molded plastic chair that one of the ICU nurses had procured for him.  It was terribly uncomfortable, but then again, most people didn’t have the luxury of sitting in them long enough to appreciate that fact.  Allowances had been made for him and Dixie to ignore the usual ICU visitor’s schedule because of their medical experience, their status at the hospital and because they were the only people who could help soothe Brackett’s frayed nerves.  But they could only do so much for their distressed friend.  During the wee hours of the morning, Brackett had become extremely agitated.  A quick phone call to the cardiologist was made, and Dr. Chan had reluctantly authorized a significant dose of Seconal to help him sleep.  Only after the barbiturate had been administered did Brackett finally drift into a deep slumber.

Early twisted his wrist and pushed his shirt cuff back slightly to better see the face of his watch.  It was so easy to lose track of time in the ICU since there were no windows to the outside world.  After he blinked a few times, the numbers slowly swam into focus.  It was already a quarter ‘til seven.  That meant that Dixie would be back to relieve him in about forty-five minutes.  Hopefully she got a better night’s sleep than he had.

Short of a caffeine fix, Early needed to do something to stay awake until Dixie arrived.  He was about to make a trip to the men’s room to splash some cold water on his face when he noticed a certain cardiologist reviewing a chart at the nurse’s station.  Brackett was currently Dr. Chan’s only patient in the ICU, so it wasn’t difficult to surmise whose chart he was reading.  Early stood up, sneaking in a quick stretch break as he wandered over to the desk.

Dr. Chan smiled at the slightly disheveled man.  “Morning, Joe.  How is it going?”

Early fought to suppress a yawn.  “Kel’s been sleeping like a baby since about two o’clock this morning.  The Seconal really knocked him out.  He even slept through this morning’s EKG and lab work.”

“Good,” Dr. Chan replied.  “He needed the rest.  I’ve never seen anyone fight off sedatives like he did yesterday.”  He flipped through the chart until he found the items he was looking for.  “Kel’s EKG looks better, and his SGOT and LDH levels are about what I’d expect to see at this point.  If everything continues to improve, I’ll probably discharge him to the cardiac ward by tomorrow evening.”  Dr. Chan briefly hesitated before he brought up a rather sensitive subject.  “Joe, you know Kel fairly well, right?”

“As much as anyone does I suppose.”

The cardiologist closed the chart and leaned back in his chair.  “Dixie filled me in about Kel’s sudden obsession with his father’s death, and his fears that he’s headed down the same path.  I’ll concede that there may be a genetic predisposition to peptic ulcer disease, but Kel’s MI was a fluke.  He doesn’t have an underlying clotting disorder, the rest of his arteries are clear, there aren’t any indications of atherosclerosis, his cholesterol levels are within normal limits, he’s not diabetic, he doesn’t smoke, and God knows, with his ulcer, he’s not eating rich or fatty foods.  In other words, his risk factors for another MI are for the most part limited to being male and over forty.  Yes, it could be argued that there’s a family history of heart disease, but since his father’s thrombosis was caused by a different etiology, namely a clotting disorder, I question its relevance here.”

Dr. Chan quietly drummed his fingers on the desk as he continued.  “Joe, I’m more concerned about how his mental status is going to affect his recovery.  Kel was an absolute basket case by the time we got him to the cath lab yesterday.  I know there’s a risk of the ulcer perforating, but I’m not too keen about keeping him heavily sedated until he can undergo surgery.  We’ll need to get Kel on his feet in a few days and start his cardiac rehab, and we can’t do that if he’s drugged to the hilt.  Do you think he would be amenable to a psych consult to help him deal with his anxiety?”

Early almost snorted his response.  “Not a chance.  I’ve suggested it on more than one occasion, and nearly got my head bitten off each time.  Kel has nothing against the psychiatric profession per se, but he’s still in serious denial about how much his father’s death has affected him.”

Tucking the chart under his arm, Dr. Chan stood up and tilted his head in the direction of the sleeping patient.  “Let’s see how he does when he wakes up.  If he’s still anxious and his vital signs remain stable, I might try upping his Inderal a bit to see if that helps.”

Early was tempted to opine that what Brackett really needed was a swift kick in the butt.  But for now, they’d have to settle for more conventional measures.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Standing outside Johnny’s apartment, Roy fought back another wave of nausea.  Yesterday’s bacchanalian indulgence had caught up with him shortly after midnight, and he had spent most of the night on the bathroom floor worshipping the porcelain god.  Never in his life had he been so intoxicated, so sick, so hung over or so humiliated.  It wasn’t like him to drown his sorrows in alcohol, but then again, it wasn’t like him to be separated from his wife either.

Roy had almost called Johnny to cancel their plans, but his need for conversation with another human being outweighed his desire to nurse his hangover in solitude.  Shielding his eyes from the morning sun, Roy rang the doorbell.  He began to grow impatient when his partner didn’t answer after two attempts.  The Land Rover was parked in its usual spot, so he knew Johnny was here.  Roy thought about using his key to let himself in, but he was in no mood to conduct a search and rescue operation.  He repositioned his thumb over the doorbell and prepared to try one more time.  If Johnny didn’t answer this time, he was going to go back home and crawl into bed.  Of course, first he’d have to find some clean sheets to replace the ones he had puked on.  Roy rang the doorbell in a rapid staccato cadence, and was relieved when he finally heard signs of activity on the other side of the door.

Still groggy from the Tylenol #3s, Johnny stumbled toward the source of the persistent noise.  He had taken only a few steps when he realized that he was only wearing a T-shirt and boxers.  Johnny grabbed the multicolored ripple afghan from the recliner and wrapped it around his waist while he looked through the peephole.  Oh, crap!  He had planned to call Roy first thing this morning and tell him not to come over, but he forgot to set his clock before he went to bed.  What was it his mother had always said about good intentions and where they led?  Oops.

Johnny combed his hair with his fingers as he opened the door.  He wasn’t sure which one of them was more likely to be arrested by the fashion police -- Johnny in his Bengay-stained T-shirt, boxers and makeshift crocheted skirt, or Roy in his mismatched plaid shirt and checkered polyester pants.

Surprised by Johnny’s unkempt appearance, Roy blurted out his initial impression.  “You look like hell.”

“I was about to say the same thing,” Johnny rasped.  “Have you seen yourself in a mirror this morning, or did you get dressed in the dark?”  With a wave of his hand, Johnny motioned for Roy to enter his apartment.

Roy’s face reddened with embarrassment.  “I didn’t get around to doing laundry last night, so I just wore whatever was clean.”  The overwhelming stench of analgesic ointment assaulted his olfactory sense and invoked a powerful bout of nausea as Roy got walked toward the living room.

Johnny noted the greenish tinge to Roy’s complexion and frantically searched the room for anything that could be used as an emesis basin.  He grabbed a nearby wastebasket and shoved it under his partner’s chin.  Johnny was surprised when his offer of assistance was promptly rebuffed.

“I’m okay,” Roy growled as he swatted at the trashcan.

“Uh huh.  Sure you are.”  Johnny placed his free hand on Roy’s forehead.  “Hmm.  You don’t feel feverish.”

Unable to lie well with a straight face, Roy quickly averted his gaze.  “You know how it is when married guys have to fend for themselves for awhile.  I guess I ate some leftovers that were way past their prime.  Man, I won’t do that again.  I was sick as a dog last night.”

“I see.”  Johnny studied his friend’s appearance with a critical eye.  “Maybe you should see one of the docs at Rampart.  You might be dehydrated.”

Roy ignored his partner’s suggestion and pointed to several items on the coffee table as he sat down in the recliner, which like the couch, been covered with a bed sheet.  “Maybe you should explain what you’re doing with all of this stuff.”

Johnny blinked too innocently.  “What stuff?”

“This awful smelling ointment for starters, which I suppose is the reason why your furniture is draped with sheets like a bunch of Code Fs.  I thought you just had a sore throat.  What happened?  How come you’re gimping around today?  And how come you’re so slathered with Bengay that you have to protect your furniture from getting stained up?”

Damn.  Even when Roy was green around the gills, nothing escaped his attention.  Johnny pushed the pillow that he had liberated from his bedroom aside and sat down on the couch.  “You know the saying about how no good deed goes unpunished?  I was helping Mrs. Murphy’s granddaughter move into her new apartment yesterday, and one of the steps leading up to the third floor disintegrated on me.”

“What did you do, twist your ankle when it went through?”

“Yeah, among other things,” Johnny muttered under his breath.

The hairs on the back of Roy’s neck stood up.  “Uh oh.  What else did you hurt?”  Now that the nausea had begun to abate, Roy’s professional curiosity was piqued.

“Oh, I sort of fell down the stairs and hit the middle of my back.”  Johnny tenderly rubbed an area near his ribcage.  “And I might have bruised a rib or two when the couch fell on me, but it didn’t bother me right away.  It took awhile before everything caught up with me.”

“When the couch fell on you?”

“Yeah.  When the step gave way, I accidentally let go of the couch to try to stop my fall, and the guy at the other end of it couldn’t hang on.  The darned thing landed smack dab on top of me.”

Roy never ceased to be amazed by his partner’s bad luck.  How on earth could one man be such a lightning rod for disaster?  He pointed at the swollen purplish digits on Johnny’s left foot.  “What happened there?”

“I stubbed my toes when I answered the phone.”

“Maybe it would be easier to tell me what you didn’t injure,” Roy deadpanned.  “So what did the docs at Rampart say about all of this?”

Johnny sank back against the couch.  He knew exactly where this conversation was heading.  “I didn’t go.  I thought about it...”

Predictably, Roy’s voice crept up about an octave as he launched into his tirade.  “That’s all you did?  You thought about it?  Johnny, you can’t be serious!  You could have really hurt yourself...”

This time it was Johnny’s turn to interrupt the conversation.  He held his hands up in a time-out signal.  “Wait a minute.  You didn’t let me finish.  You see, I already had this appointment with Dr. Grant at four o’clock yesterday, and since the emergency room was so crowded the day before, I figured I could probably get seen a lot faster if I saw this new guy instead of going to Rampart.”

Scarily, that line of reasoning actually made sense.  But Roy got the distinct impression that there was more to the story.  “So what happened?”

“I was taking a nap, and the phone woke me up before my alarm went off.  When I jumped up to answer it, I was so groggy, I wound up jamming my toes on the lamp stand.”  To emphasize his point, Johnny pointed to the culprit that had maliciously darted into his path without warning, and he made a mental note to get rid of his nemesis before he maimed his other toes.  “Anyway, it turns out that Dr. Grant got called out on an emergency, so my appointment got rescheduled to Monday morning at nine-thirty.  There was no way I was going to get an appointment with another doctor that late on a Friday afternoon, especially as a new patient.  I’ll just have to take it easy for a couple of days.  I think I have enough Tylenol #3s left over from some dental work to tide me over until then.”

Roy knew Johnny wasn’t going to like what he was about to propose, but he had to try.  “Go get some clothes on.  We’re going to Rampart.”

Johnny rolled his eyes.  “Roy, that’s not necessary.  I can wait until Monday to get checked out.”

“Maybe you can wait, but I can’t.”  Roy got out of the shrouded recliner and stood up.  “C’mon, get moving.  The sooner we leave, the sooner we can get back.”

“But if the ER is swamped, it could be hours before they get around to seeing me.  Then my back will really be killing me if I have to sit in one of those crappy chairs all day.”

“So take a pillow with you.”

Knowing that Roy wasn’t about to relent, Johnny begrudgingly gave in.  “Okay, okay.  I’ll take my sleeping bag with me.”

“A sleeping bag?”  Roy scratched the back of his head while he tried to follow Johnny’s peculiar leap in the deductive process.

“My back would probably feel better if I could lie down while I’m waiting.”  Johnny added with an impish grin, “Besides, maybe I’ll get lucky while I’m there.  Want to be prepared, you know.”

Interesting mental images popped into Roy’s head, some with rather risqué overtones.  “Are you hoping one of the nurses will trip and fall on top of you while you’re lying on the floor?”

“You never know,” Johnny laughed.  “Stranger things have happened.”

Roy chuckled, but he knew there was an element of truth in what Johnny had said.  If anything strange could happen, it would happen to his partner.  Roy couldn’t help but think that axiom sounded suspiciously like a corollary to Murphy’s Law.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Seven hours after arriving at Rampart, Johnny had yet to seen by a doctor.  In all fairness, however, the medical staff had been inundated with actual emergencies today.  All patients with non-urgent conditions simply had to wait their turn.  So he waited...and waited.  Johnny had tried several times to convince his partner that he was feeling much better, and therefore could leave without even a cursory examination.  But it was hard to present a compelling argument from a recumbent position, especially when he moaned piteously every time he moved.  Johnny was glad he had the foresight to bring his sleeping bag to use as a pallet.  There was absolutely no way his back could have tolerated sitting in a chair for that long.

Lying on top of the unfurled sleeping bag, Johnny draped his left arm over his eyes to block out the harsh glare of the overhead lights.  He reasoned that if he could fall asleep, the time would pass more quickly.  Johnny had almost succeeded in dozing off when a very recognizable baritone voice interrupted his efforts.

“Gage, if you’re camped out to get tickets to the Rolling Stones concert, I think you’re waiting in the wrong line.”

Johnny lifted his arm away from his face so he could see the source of the remark.  Deke Coulter, one of the paramedics from Station 45, was standing over him and grinning like a Cheshire cat.  Johnny tried to adopt an aura of nonchalance, as much as one could while lying on the floor in Rampart’s emergency room waiting area.  “Deke, what’s up, buddy?”

“Obviously not you,” Deke joked.  “What are you doing on the floor?”

Roy looked up from the magazine that he had purchased at the gift shop three hours ago.  “He fell down some stairs yesterday and injured his back.”

Deke let out a low whistle.  “I feel for you, man.  I did that about a month ago.  I was carrying groceries up the stairs and hit a slick spot.  The funny thing was, it didn’t really hurt that much at the time.  But wouldn’t you know it?  By the time the muscle spasms really set in, the doctor’s office had already closed for the day.  I felt too embarrassed to show up in the emergency room, so I tried to tough it out.  Fat chance.  By midnight, I was bawling like a baby.  I finally broke down and called Steve to take me to the hospital.  Unfortunately, I didn’t have your good sense to bring a bedroll.  I thought my back was going to break into a million pieces before I got to see a doctor.  Then after all was said and done, I wound up missing the next four shifts, all because of a stupid grease spot.  The guys at the station are still kidding me about it.  They’ve even started calling me the ‘Crisco Kid’.”

Upon hearing about his fellow paramedic’s tale of woe, Johnny felt a little less foolish about his own mishap.  “Four shifts, huh?”

“Yeah.  Even with the drugs, my back hurt like the dickens for over a week.  Just getting up to take a piss was a major ordeal.  If I would have had any sense, I would have kept a coffee can by my bed.”  As Deke switched the HT to his other hand, he spotted his partner emerging from one of the treatment rooms.  “Hey, did you guys hear about Brackett?”

“No, what about him?” Roy asked.

“He had a heart attack yesterday at the base station.  Chuck Baker from B-Shift was standing out in the hall waiting for our backboard when it happened.  One minute Brackett was barking orders over the radio, and then he clutched his chest and hit the ground like a ton of bricks.”

Johnny’s mouth dropped open.  “Oh, my God.  Is he going to be okay?”

“I dunno.  Chuck got kicked out of the room as soon as they got Brackett transferred over to the exam table.  Nobody’s saying much about it.”  Deke motioned toward his partner who was impatiently tapping his watch and pointing toward the exit.  “Anyway, I need to run before Steve leaves without me.  It’s his turn to cook dinner, and he wants to swing by the grocery store to pick up a few things.  You know how it goes.  No rest for the weary.  Take care.  Hope you’re feeling better soon, Gage.”

“Thanks, Deke.”

As the on-duty paramedic turned to leave, Johnny heard a female voice call out his name.  Roy reached down and nudged him on the shoulder.  “They’re ready for you.”

Now that the moment Johnny had been waiting for had finally arrived, he almost wished that it hadn’t.  Getting up would require movement, and that would involve pain -- the same pain which had caused him to lie down in the first place.  Johnny couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity.  Life, he thought, was a scream.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

Clad only in his boxers and a threadbare hospital gown, Johnny patiently lay on the exam table while he waited for one of the doctors to come in and see him.  He wasn’t familiar with the staff’s weekend rotation schedule these days, but he sincerely hoped that he wouldn’t get stuck with Morton.  It wasn’t that Johnny lacked confidence in him.  He just didn’t want to be the subject of one of Morton’s less than tactful lectures about taking better care of himself.  Perhaps the promising young doctor would start to mellow as he got older and learn to be more diplomatic in his remarks.  But Johnny felt that the passage of a mere two days since Morton’s last venting session at the nurse’s station was hardly sufficient time for his people skills to vastly improve.  He knew the comments weren’t aimed directly at him, but they could just as easily applied since he often utilized the emergency room for minor complaints.  However, Johnny conveniently forgot that he was usually dragged into a treatment room against his will for such visits by someone like Roy, Dixie, Brackett, Early or even Morton.

While he offered up a silent prayer to be seen by anyone but Morton, the door finally opened.  There was a slight hitch in Johnny’s breathing as he waited to learn the identity of the mystery ER physician, and he nearly melted with relief when a thirtyish man with sun-streaked blonde hair entered the room.  He looked vaguely familiar, but Johnny couldn’t put a name to the face.

The doctor smiled warmly.  “Mr. Gage?  I’m Dr. Dunn.  I understand you took a shortcut down a flight of stairs yesterday?”

“Yeah, that’s one way of putting it.”  Lest Dr. Dunn assume that he didn’t try to seek medical care earlier, Johnny blurted out some semblance of an explanation.  “I had an appointment to see my GP yesterday after this happened, but it got cancelled at the last minute.  His office rescheduled my appointment for Monday morning, but my overly cautious partner here thought I should come in and get checked out before then.”

“Partner?”  Dr. Dunn cast a curious glace at the quiet man in the mismatched clothes.

“Yeah, we’re paramedics with the county.  Station 51.”

Recognition dawned on the emergency room physician.  “Oh, okay.  I thought I had seen you somewhere before.  So what exactly happened?  An on-the-job injury?”

Embarrassed by his incredible lack of grace, Johnny recounted his sad tale.  “No.  I was helping someone move a couch up some stairs, and one of the steps crumbled underneath me.  It was one of those outdoor staircases where each step is a thin concrete slab supported by a metal frame.  Anyway, after the stair disintegrated, my right ankle caught in the frame for a second or two just before I fell and landed flat on my back, more or less.  I was actually sort of upside down.  Before I could get up, the other guy lost his hold on the couch and it landed right on top of me.”

“Did you hit your head?  Lose consciousness at all?”

“Nah.  Just got the wind knocked out of me.”

Dr. Dunn set the hospital chart on a nearby mayo stand.  “I need for you to sit up for a minute while I take a peek at your back, okay?”

Not really, but Johnny knew the sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could get back to the comforts of hearth and home...preferably with heavy duty drugs.  He grimaced as he pulled himself into a sitting position.  It was amazing how the slightest movement could inflict such agony.

The emergency room physician helped Johnny turn sideways so that his long legs dangled over the side of the exam table.  Then he untied the strings on the back of the hospital gown so he could examine the injured area.  He winced when he saw the extent of the bruising.  “That looks painful.”  Although he tried to be as gentle as possible, Dr. Dunn elicited several loud hisses as he palpated Johnny’s back.  “Sorry about that.  Almost done.”  The diffuse distribution of the deep bruises raised the possibility of injury to any number of internal organs.  Dr. Dunn’s fingers traced over an area above the waist and slightly to the right.  “Have you noticed any blood in your urine?”

Johnny answered honestly.  “I don’t know.  I don’t think so.”

Dr. Dunn walked to the other side of the exam table so that he faced Johnny, and then held his arms straight in front of him.  “Mr. Gage, I want you to hold your arms out like this.  Don’t let me push them back down.”  After the doctor evaluated the muscle strength, reflexes and symmetry in Johnny’s arms, he briefly hesitated before testing the lower extremities.  Dr. Dunn frowned as he noted the swollen, purplish toes on the left foot in addition to the aforementioned twisted ankle.  “Wow, you really did a number on yourself.  What happened to your toes?”

Johnny was tempted to bury his face in his hands, but the way his luck was running, he was afraid that he’d poke himself in the eyes and blind himself  “I was half-asleep when the doctor’s office called to reschedule my appointment and I bumped into a floor lamp as I was trying to get to the phone.”

The doctor carefully manipulated Johnny’s ankle before moving onto the injured toes.  Dr. Dunn shook his head slightly as he rendered his professional opinion.  “I think the ankle is just sprained, but the toes are definitely broken.”  He placed his hands under Johnny’s feet.  “All right, I know this is probably going to hurt like hell since you’ve managed to maim both feet, but I want you to press against my hands as hard as you can.”

Dr. Dunn had a remarkable talent for understatement.  Johnny wanted to scream as he pushed his feet against the physician’s hands.  By the time the assessment was over, Johnny was almost panting.  Any movement exacerbated the already excruciating pain in his back.  He wondered if Dr. Dunn would believe that he was merely demonstrating upper body strength and dexterity if he delivered a swift uppercut to the physician’s jaw.

Turning his attention back to the medical chart, Dr. Dunn scanned the triage notes and the last set of vital signs that had been taken a few minutes prior to his arrival.  “You’re running quite a bit of a temperature.  How long have you had the sore throat?”

Johnny was puzzled by the doctor’s question.  He didn’t remember telling the triage nurse anything about a sore throat.  Was it that obvious that he was having trouble swallowing, or did he sound more hoarse than he realized?  The mystery was soon solved when his partner began to slink away from the table and tried to appear inconspicuous.  Even when he didn’t say a word, Roy gave himself away.

“Oh, that,” Johnny replied.  “Maybe about three or four days.  Something like that.”  He felt compelled to reiterate his earlier claim that he had already made arrangements to have it evaluated.  “Like I said, I was supposed to have it checked out yesterday before my appointment got rescheduled.”  Johnny wasn’t sure if the physician’s expression was one of disbelief, annoyance or amusement.

Dr. Dunn removed the otoscope from the wall mount and proceeded to inspect Johnny’s ears, nose and throat.  His brow wrinkled as he noted the extensive amount of inflammation.  “I’ll bet that hurts.  Your throat looks like raw hamburger meat.  You have a lot of sinus drainage and your right ear is a bit inflamed.  I’d have to get a culture to be sure, but I’ll bet you have a strep infection.  It’s a good thing you came in today so we can get you started on some antibiotics.  This infection could have really gotten out of hand if you had waited another couple of days.”  After he finished listening to Johnny’s heart and lungs, Dr. Dunn re-draped his stethoscope around his neck.  Normally the physician wasn’t a superstitious man, but in view of Johnny’s other injuries, he was almost afraid to continue his exam.  Who knows what else he would find?  More broken bones?  Abdominal bleeding?  The bubonic plague?

The emergency room physician smiled indulgently as he patted the table and instructed his patient to lie back down so that he could complete the exam.  He was relieved to only find some crepitus along three ribs, with no evidence of a hepatic or other internal injury.  Dr. Dunn wryly noted that it was a good thing Johnny had already had his spleen removed.  At least that was one less potential complication to worry about.

Retrieving the chart from the nearby stand, Dr. Dunn sat down on the swivel stool while he scribbled his findings and wrote a series of orders.  Then he rested the metal chart on his lap as he outlined his preliminary impressions and plans.  “Mr. Gage, you definitely have an upper respiratory infection with mild otitis media in the right ear.  Like I said, I’m almost certain that we’re dealing with a strep infection, so we’ll get a throat culture while you’re here.  I’m ordering x-rays of your spine, chest, abdomen, right ankle and left foot.  I also want to get a urinalysis and some blood work.  Judging from the location of one of the deeper bruises, I want to rule out the possibility of trauma to your right kidney.”

Dr. Dunn lightly squeezed Johnny’s shoulder.  “Hang in there.  Just a little bit longer and then we can give you something for the pain and muscle spasms.”

Johnny practically salivated at the prospect of imminent, and possibly narcotic induced analgesia.  If he could, he’d be turning cartwheels in gleeful anticipation.  However, as matter stood now, he’d almost be willing to kill for a single aspirin.

Part 2