The Family Doctor. Bobby Hutchinson

summon up his usual authoritative tone. He felt exhausted, and his stomach was upset again. The sense of unreality that had begun with the X ray intensified. Still, he tried. “I’m the chief of staff at this hospital. Surely I have the right to see my own results.”

      “Sorry, Doctor.” The older woman shook her head. “You’re Dr. Jensen’s patient, and he didn’t leave any orders of that sort.”

      By the time he’d been wheeled back to Emerg, Tony was seething again, focusing on the ridiculousness of the rules rather than thinking about what the results of the scan would reveal. But underneath the justifiable anger, he could feel anxiety eating away at his gut like acid.

      Jensen came bustling in after another twenty-minute wait, a brown envelope clamped under his right arm, and Tony’s stomach cramped hard. The bile in his throat burned, and he had to swallow repeatedly before he could croak out, “Is it sarcoma?”

      “Tony,” Jensen began in a hearty tone, avoiding eye contact again, “I don’t know how to tell you this. There’s been one hell of a mix-up—I owe you an apology. When I looked in the computer for the results of your X ray a while ago, I had no idea another Antony O’Connor had been seen in Emerg this morning. He was complaining of a sore lower leg, and he had an X ray shortly before you did. Turns out it was his X ray we were looking at, not yours. He does indeed have sarcoma.” With a triumphant gesture, Jensen whipped out the negatives from the envelope. “Now, this is you, and as you can see, there’s no fracture, and definitely no sarcoma. We can safely assume all that’s wrong is a severe sprain.”

      The relief that flooded Tony was so intense he felt dizzy. It took several moments before utter fury edged out the thankfulness. How could such a gross mistake happen in his hospital? He opened his mouth to ask and the turmoil in his stomach intensified.

      Suddenly he knew he was going to vomit. He stretched across Jensen, groping for a kidney basin. Jensen shoved one at him only seconds before he threw up.

      With each expulsion, the burning in Tony’s chest intensified, and he began to have difficulty catching his breath. His intestines were on fire, and as his stomach convulsed in agony, he moaned and bent double.

      “Easy, Tony.” Jensen was checking his blood pressure. Two ER nurses materialized and took over the task of monitoring vital signs.

      “Acute GI symptoms,” Jensen concluded. “You have any history of intestinal problems, Tony?”

      Tony gasped and shook his head. “Tylenol,” he managed to croak. “Four Tylenol…empty stomach…need water…”

      Jensen gave him a small paper cup of water, and Tony swallowed it in one sip. “I just need some food,” he groaned, his eyes streaming from the pain in his chest and abdomen. “That Tylenol I took is killing me.”

      Being told he probably had sarcoma hadn’t helped, either, but Tony didn’t have the breath to say so.

      “Go down to the kitchen and ask for a bowl of clear broth,” Jensen barked at an aide, “and be quick about it.”

      The burning subsided enough so that Tony could straighten. A nurse stayed with him, and when the aide arrived with a large bowl of broth on a tray, she cranked the back of the bed higher so he could sit more comfortably.

      Tony had never been as grateful for a simple bowl of beef broth. He spooned it up, and almost immediately the pain in his chest and abdomen began to ease.

      “Better?” The nurse smiled at him, and he was able to give her a facsimile of a smile in return.

      He finished the entire bowl in less than two minutes. The nurse set the tray on a cart. Sinking back on the bed, he heaved a sigh—and with the speed and intensity of a killer wave rolling in, a sensation of extreme heat rushed over him. It grew more and more intense, and as he felt his throat begin to swell, panic overwhelmed him.

      “Allergy,” he whispered with the last of his breath.

      He heard the nurse shouting and was dimly aware of bodies surrounding him and voices talking in urgent tones. In the few moments before he lost consciousness, he knew he was about to die, after all.

      CHAPTER THREE

      “DID YOU HEAR THAT O’CONNOR’S now on a respirator in ICU?”

      Leslie was taking hungry bites of her tuna sandwich. It was past two in the afternoon, and she and Kate were sitting in the hospital cafeteria.

      “The whole story’s been flying back and forth on e-mail all day,” Kate said with a shake of her head that sent her auburn hair flying. “It’s hard to believe there could be such a series of problems, and with the chief of staff, of all people.”

      “It would be funny if it hadn’t almost been tragic,” Leslie agreed. “The final straw was that new French chef in the kitchen.”

      “Rene Lalonde,” Kate said. “I heard that he put eggshells in the beef broth. Now, why would he do that?”

      “Apparently it’s a traditional French custom. It clarifies it or something. How was he to know that O’Connor was violently allergic to eggs? We had his allergy marked down on the admitting form, but none of us suspected there’d be eggshells in the broth. I tell you, I’ve seen some panic situations in the ER, but today took the prize. Practically every doctor in the entire hospital was down there at one point. Nobody could see any obvious reason for such extreme symptoms. It was Jensen who finally asked for a detailed list of what the broth was made of.”

      “Tony’s going to be okay, isn’t he?” Kate felt ashamed of her earlier lack of sympathy for his medical problems. He certainly didn’t deserve to be in ICU on a respirator.

      Leslie nodded. She finished her sandwich and gulped some of her coffee, swearing when it burned her tongue. “He’s stable at the moment, but it was touch-and-go there for a while. They even called next of kin—his family’s upstairs right now. Apparently his mom is really up in arms. According to the nurses, she’s been making noises about suing the hospital for malpractice.”

      They looked at each other and shook their heads.

      “Can you imagine the headlines?”

      Kate could, only too well. “Sounds like Tony’s mom is really scared,” she mused. She struggled again with her personal feelings, but she knew what her professional role was. “I’ll go up and see what I can do. Maybe just talking to somebody would help her feel better about things.”

      “Better you than me,” Leslie said, sounding skeptical. “One of the nurses up there told me the woman’s a real piece of work.”

      “Well, I’d rather have her unload on me than on a lawyer.”

      Leslie raised her eyebrows. “Anybody ever tell you that the normal reaction to a bad scene is to run the other way?”

      Kate grinned. “Yeah, but I get paid good money for standing still and deflecting bullets. Back when I was nursing, I told myself I could do a lot more for emotional issues than I ever could for physical ones.” That conviction had inspired her to go back to school and take one course after the other in psychology and conflict management. “And you’re a great one to talk about running away from emergencies, Les. Besides, I’d like to meet Tony’s mother. Talking to someone’s mother can give a lot of insight into why their kids are the way they are.” Kate chewed the last of her bun, reflecting that she could use all the help she could get as far as Tony was concerned. It was humiliating to be able to resolve everyone else’s anger but her own.

      “Yeah?” Leslie gave her a narrow-eyed look. “So that’s what you and Galina talk about each time I go to the bathroom, huh? You’re trying to analyze me.”

      “Don’t flatter yourself. Your mom tells me how sexy the guys in Rehab are and asks why you and I don’t spend more time down there. Beats me. By the way, how’s Galina doing with rehab these days, Les?”

      Leslie’s mother, Galina Poulin, was