One Night With The Army Doc. Traci Douglass

Beijing, conducting a training conference on the latest alternative techniques for closure of the open abdomen.”

      “Fascinating.” The chief sat behind his desk and straightened his name plate. “Dr. David Carpenter” it proclaimed, in engraved gold letters. “And, please, call me Dr. Dave.”

      “Okay.”

      The cluttered room was the opposite of Molly’s own pristine office back home. Amongst his papers and files were several family photos, in which everyone was laughing and cheerful. Smiles—genuine ones, anyway—were rare in the Flynn family.

      “What can you tell me about my patient, Dr. Dave?”

      “Yes, yes. Of course.” He searched through a stack of charts on a shelf against the far wall then handed her one. “His name is Robert Templeton, though he prefers to be called Bobby. Thirty-one and a professional hockey player for our hometown team the Anchorage Anoraks.”

      “Anoraks?” Molly raised a brow. “Isn’t that a type of jacket?”

      Dr. Dave chuckled. “Yep. But it sounded cool so we went with it.”

      “I see. Says here he’s an enforcer. What exactly does that mean?”

      “It’s not an official position on the hockey team, more of a tough guy. He starts fights to protect the smaller guys from taking the hits.”

      “Huh.”

      Molly had gone to a Blackhawks game in Chicago once, with Brian, and had had to cover her eyes during the worst of the brawls. Even a year spent in the ER hadn’t prepared her for the copious amounts of gore and raw testosterone. If her new patient regularly partook in those kinds of brutal activities, it was no wonder he’d landed in the hospital.

      “What are his current symptoms?”

      “He was initially seen through our outpatient clinic for contact dermatitis.”

      She frowned. “How does a man go from a simple skin rash to cardiac arrest?”

      “Good question.” Dr. Dave sat back in his chair. “The treating physician gave him samples of diphenhydramine to take before he left and the wheezing started shortly afterward.”

      “He was allergic to the anti-allergy medicine?”

      “It would appear so.”

      “Looks like they gave him point one cc of epinephrine to counteract his reaction to the antihistamine.” She traced her finger down the chart documentation. “Could he have an underlying heart condition? A skin infection like cellulitis can cause a rapid pulse. Or perhaps inflamed blood vessels from vasculitis?”

      “Nope. His CBC results were normal. No signs of an infection anywhere.”

      “Hmm.” She flipped to the patient’s labs, then went back to the history and the physical. “No food allergies? He’s not taking any meds on a regular basis?”

      “None.”

      “And he’s been complaining of strange scents?”

      “Yes. Says he smells cinnamon and cloves all the time.”

      “All right.” Difficult cases were Molly’s bread and butter. She took them as a personal challenge. “Can you please order a CT of his chest to rule out Churg-Strauss Syndrome? His bloodwork may have been normal, but inflammation of the blood vessels in his heart, lungs and skin would explain all his symptoms. Also, let’s start him on a high-dose steroid therapy.”

      “CSS doesn’t have a good prognosis, does it?” Dr. Dave asked, his tone concerned.

      “For patients diagnosed and treated quickly the life expectancy is five years. Untreated, Mr. Templeton would have a year at most. Of course there’s always the chance this isn’t autoimmune-related.”

      “You’re the expert, Dr. Flynn. I’ll get these orders to the staff right away.” Dr. Dave smiled—the kind of fond grin she’d always wanted from her own father but never received. “You look so much like your dad.”

      Molly clasped her hands atop the file on her lap. Looks were about the only thing she and her father had in common. Always active, Roger Flynn expected everyone around him to adhere to his hectic schedule. To him, Molly had always been too quiet and boring, preferring to stay home and read a good book rather than operate in the jungle.

      “Would you like to meet your patient now?” Dr. Dave stood and moved toward the door. “I believe your crew’s waiting for us outside Bobby’s room.”

      “Of course.” She followed him out into the busy hallway. “And, please, call me Molly.”

      “Okay.” He pushed the button for the elevator. “All the staff assigned to Bobby have signed the required releases except one. I’m still working on him.”

      “Unfortunately anyone who doesn’t sign the forms can’t participate in the care of the patient from this point forward. My crew films whenever I’m present, to make sure we get an accurate portrayal of the process.” The elevator dinged and they boarded. “Perhaps this person can be reassigned?”

      “Right.” Dr. Dave chuckled. “And perhaps polar bears will learn to tap dance.”

      Molly glanced up, surprised by his sarcasm.

      “This particular physician is a close friend of Bobby’s and can be...stubborn when it comes to people he considers family. I talked to him again, before you got here, but he hasn’t budged on the publicity releases. I’m afraid he prefers to keep a low profile. Dedicated workaholic, really.”

      “I see.” Molly crossed her arms, wishing she’d had time to unpack her lab coat and cover up her casual travel clothes. “Well, I don’t know anything about this Dr. Ryder, or his reasons for not signing, but those rules come directly from the network. Besides, treating a close friend or family member is a conflict of interest.”

      “Oh, I’m still the patient’s official care provider.”

      The elevator arrived on the fourth floor and Dr. Dave held the doors, exiting after Molly.

      “But Bobby signed consent forms allowing Jake full access to his medical records when he was admitted, and granted him power of attorney in case he’s incapacitated.”

      Molly waited while Dr. Dave walked on ahead to the nurses’ station, to speak with a curvy Latino woman whose name tag read “Gladys.”

      “Our boy available?” he asked.

      “Yes, sir, Dr. Dave. He’s got company, though.”

      “Dr. Ryder?”

      “Yep.”

      “Great.” He turned to Molly once more, his smile broad. “You’ll like Dr. Ryder. He’s a brilliant trauma surgeon, like your father. The youngest head of EM in Anchorage Mercy history. Cut his teeth on combat rescues in Afghanistan...”

      Molly only half listened from that point, her mind still snagged on Dr. Dave’s earlier words.

      “He’s a brilliant trauma surgeon, like your father.”

      Great. Just what she needed. Roger Flynn, Version Two.

      “Hey, Mol. About time you got here,” said her cameraman Rob, coming around the corner with her show’s field producer, Neal. “Thought we’d have to send out a search party.”

      “Funny.” She smoothed her hand down her shirt, then asked Neal, “Everything all set?”

      “Everything except the guy sitting in the room with the patient.”

      “Molly?” Dr. Dave stood with his hand on the door. “Ready to go in?”

      “Of course.” She turned to her crew. “Give me a moment.”

      Resolve steeled, she followed Dr. Dave into Bobby Templeton’s room.