The Probable Future
Page 63
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Without thinking, Stella began to follow the paramedics into the examining room. Ruth Holworthy put a hand on her shoulder. “You’re not going in there, kiddo. No possibility. No way.”
But Stella pulled away and went through the doors on the heels of the paramedics. She had a buzzing feeling in her head, so she had barely heard Ruth admonish her, and even if she had heard Ruth cry out behind her, she would have paid no mind.
When Stella slipped into the examining room, a resident was taking the young man’s vital signs. Everyone was too busy to notice Stella, until Dr. Stewart came in.
“Good Lord,” he said, when he spied her. She was right there by the door, watching one of the residents from Hamilton Hospital labor over the now unconscious young man. “Stella. Go back to the office.”
But Stella stayed where she was. She could feel the young man sinking, like a ship out on the ocean. Even she could tell that the resident was not up to the task before him.
“That doctor can’t help him. He has a lacerated liver.”
“Did you overhear someone mention a diagnosis?”
The young man on the table was shivering uncontrollably, the way patients with internal injuries often did. His color was ashen and he hadn’t responded when the nurse practitioner hooked up an I V.
“It’s what’s wrong with him,” Stella said grimly. She sounded so sure of herself that Dr. Stewart forgot about shooing her out. “Is it something that can be fixed?”
“That all depends.”
When he approached, the resident said, “I think I’ve got this covered.” All the same, Doc Stewart examined the injured man’s abdomen. It was bloated and he could feel fluid inside. The pulse rate was dangerously low and Dr. Stewart didn’t like the looks of the whole situation. The resident was taking all the appropriate steps, but sometimes that wasn’t enough. Sometimes there had to be a leap of faith. Brock Stewart had seen it before, a nurse or a doctor who somehow knew what was wrong before any tests were taken. He’d had those gut feelings himself; he’d acted on impulse, he’d taken a risk, when waiting would have meant the possibility of sacrificing a life.
He signaled the nurse to phone the medevac; they’d need a helicopter. Dr. Stewart would call ahead to Boston so that X rays and surgery could be arranged.
After the patient had been moved, airlifted out in less than twenty minutes, there was a stunned silence in the clinic. A good deal of blood had washed through the waiting room, a trail that led out through the hall and into the examining room. Ruth always used a mixture of bleach, vinegar, and club soda to remove such stains.
“I’m better than a professional carpet cleaner,” she declared. She turned to Stella. “Next time I tell you to stay, are you going to listen?”
“Probably not,” Stella admitted.
“You’re just like the old doc.” Ruth shook her head; in her opinion, there were some people in this world too stubborn to ever toe the line. “You do as you please.”
Hap and Stella were both quiet on the drive home. Hap was sitting up front with his grandfather, with Stella in the backseat. She was studying the shape of Hap’s head. He had fine brown hair, but when she narrowed her eyes, it looked as though some sort of light was streaking through in radiant bands. Say it, Stella thought. Let him know who you are.
“I’m thinking of not becoming a doctor.” It was ridiculous how hard this was for Hap to say out loud. It took all his strength and once it was said, he leaned his head against the car window, drained.
The day itself was sunny and mild, though you’d never know it while working in the clinic, where the fluorescent lights flickered and the shades were always half-drawn. There was silence for a while after Hap’s proclamation; the old Lincoln turned off the service road and they headed toward town. Light filtered through the leaves of the plane trees. Green and yellow. Shadow and sun.
“Not cut out for it?” Brock Stewart finally said.
“No, sir.”
“Well, Stella, what do you think? Should I draw and quarter him? Should I send him into exile for not following in the family tradition? Should I never speak to him again?”
Hap blinked, confused. He had been so nervous about telling his grandfather about this decision, he thought he might not be hearing correctly. But Stella laughed out loud. After all this worry, the doctor was letting Hap off easy. She leaned forward, elbows on the seat behind Hap.
“Your grandpop’s joking,” she whispered, before she turned to the doctor. “Definitely a beheading. But first can we order pizza? I’m starving.”
But Stella pulled away and went through the doors on the heels of the paramedics. She had a buzzing feeling in her head, so she had barely heard Ruth admonish her, and even if she had heard Ruth cry out behind her, she would have paid no mind.
When Stella slipped into the examining room, a resident was taking the young man’s vital signs. Everyone was too busy to notice Stella, until Dr. Stewart came in.
“Good Lord,” he said, when he spied her. She was right there by the door, watching one of the residents from Hamilton Hospital labor over the now unconscious young man. “Stella. Go back to the office.”
But Stella stayed where she was. She could feel the young man sinking, like a ship out on the ocean. Even she could tell that the resident was not up to the task before him.
“That doctor can’t help him. He has a lacerated liver.”
“Did you overhear someone mention a diagnosis?”
The young man on the table was shivering uncontrollably, the way patients with internal injuries often did. His color was ashen and he hadn’t responded when the nurse practitioner hooked up an I V.
“It’s what’s wrong with him,” Stella said grimly. She sounded so sure of herself that Dr. Stewart forgot about shooing her out. “Is it something that can be fixed?”
“That all depends.”
When he approached, the resident said, “I think I’ve got this covered.” All the same, Doc Stewart examined the injured man’s abdomen. It was bloated and he could feel fluid inside. The pulse rate was dangerously low and Dr. Stewart didn’t like the looks of the whole situation. The resident was taking all the appropriate steps, but sometimes that wasn’t enough. Sometimes there had to be a leap of faith. Brock Stewart had seen it before, a nurse or a doctor who somehow knew what was wrong before any tests were taken. He’d had those gut feelings himself; he’d acted on impulse, he’d taken a risk, when waiting would have meant the possibility of sacrificing a life.
He signaled the nurse to phone the medevac; they’d need a helicopter. Dr. Stewart would call ahead to Boston so that X rays and surgery could be arranged.
After the patient had been moved, airlifted out in less than twenty minutes, there was a stunned silence in the clinic. A good deal of blood had washed through the waiting room, a trail that led out through the hall and into the examining room. Ruth always used a mixture of bleach, vinegar, and club soda to remove such stains.
“I’m better than a professional carpet cleaner,” she declared. She turned to Stella. “Next time I tell you to stay, are you going to listen?”
“Probably not,” Stella admitted.
“You’re just like the old doc.” Ruth shook her head; in her opinion, there were some people in this world too stubborn to ever toe the line. “You do as you please.”
Hap and Stella were both quiet on the drive home. Hap was sitting up front with his grandfather, with Stella in the backseat. She was studying the shape of Hap’s head. He had fine brown hair, but when she narrowed her eyes, it looked as though some sort of light was streaking through in radiant bands. Say it, Stella thought. Let him know who you are.
“I’m thinking of not becoming a doctor.” It was ridiculous how hard this was for Hap to say out loud. It took all his strength and once it was said, he leaned his head against the car window, drained.
The day itself was sunny and mild, though you’d never know it while working in the clinic, where the fluorescent lights flickered and the shades were always half-drawn. There was silence for a while after Hap’s proclamation; the old Lincoln turned off the service road and they headed toward town. Light filtered through the leaves of the plane trees. Green and yellow. Shadow and sun.
“Not cut out for it?” Brock Stewart finally said.
“No, sir.”
“Well, Stella, what do you think? Should I draw and quarter him? Should I send him into exile for not following in the family tradition? Should I never speak to him again?”
Hap blinked, confused. He had been so nervous about telling his grandfather about this decision, he thought he might not be hearing correctly. But Stella laughed out loud. After all this worry, the doctor was letting Hap off easy. She leaned forward, elbows on the seat behind Hap.
“Your grandpop’s joking,” she whispered, before she turned to the doctor. “Definitely a beheading. But first can we order pizza? I’m starving.”
