“Not a happy story. My understanding is that she bled out from one of her mesenteric arteries. She was rushed to surgery and transfused, but I’m afraid she suffered significant brain hypoxia in the interim. At least that’s what I was told by the anesthesiologist. Presently she’s in a coma, and as you can see, she’s not breathing on her own, ergo the ventilator. Otherwise, her vitals are good. We’ll have to see if she comes around. The anesthesiologist and the Neurology consult didn’t sound optimistic, but there’s always a miracle. It’s up to the good Lord now.”
“Thank you,” Mitt managed in a scratchy voice, not knowing what else to say. He swallowed in an attempt to ease his suddenly dry throat. At the same time, his predictive powers, accompanied by a slight tingling on the insides of his arms, informed him the patient was not going to “come around,” which was more than disturbing. It meant that the lives of every one of his assigned patients had ended, even if one was technically still living. Bianca Perez wasn’t even breathing on her own.
Of course, all four patients were also Dr. Geraldo Rodriguez’s recent patients, too, and Mitt wondered if that realization had crossed Dr. Rodriguez’s mind. Actually, Mitt doubted it because Dr. Rodriguez had the benefit of hundreds if not thousands of patients during his years as a resident and could easily explain these recent losses as happening just by chance, which Mitt was struggling to do.
In a daze, Mitt left Ms. Perez to hurriedly rethread his way back through the ICU to return to the bank of elevators. Despite the disturbing news, at least he had gotten out of the unit without having been embarrassed. He pressed the Up button, wondering if during morning rounds anyone would bring up the issue of his bad luck — a wild understatement. If someone did bring it up, what would he say? What could he say? And more important, what might Dr. Kumar say?
When the elevator arrived, it was packed, and Mitt had to literally squeeze in. Although no one said anything, he could tell from their expressions that some of the people aboard were mildly put out they had to make room for yet another passenger when the car was already packed. As the elevator rose to the next floor, Mitt found himself wondering if the architects and designers of the present Bellevue Hospital high-rise had thought in the 1970s that ten passenger elevators and six service elevators would be adequate. It sounded like a lot of elevators, but to him it was already apparent that there weren’t nearly enough, and he had only been a resident for two days.
On the fifteenth floor, as he approached the door to the surgical conference room, Mitt couldn’t help but be reminded of the mysterious blond girl disappearing through the same door, especially after seeing her again that very morning. What particularly mystified him was why and even how his imagination was conjuring up this same illusion, if that’s what it was. As far as he knew, he’d never met or even seen anyone who resembled the child, so why would the vison always be so consistent? And why the curious period dress? And were those bloodstains on her bodice or did they just look like bloodstains? And what was the instrument she’d pulled from her eye socket? He had no answers to any of these questions, and he wondered if he ever would. More than anything, Mitt hoped he’d seen the last of her, yet when he asked himself the question, his predictive powers and a minor accompanying sensation of pins and needles told him that he had not.
“Will wonders never cease,” Andrea quipped when Mitt came into the surgical conference room. She was alone in the room, sitting in one of the student desk chairs. “I don’t believe it. You’re almost ten minutes early.” She made an exaggerated expression of disbelief after checking the time on her phone.
“Okay, okay, let’s not create a scene,” Mitt said. He took the chair next to hers, and as he did so, he noticed, contrary to him, how “put together” she appeared, just like always, with her bobbed hair perfectly in place. Her only concession to her new status was that she was wearing scrubs under her white coat and not one of her colorful dresses. “To be honest, I made an effort to get here in time to find out how your night was. I know it can’t have been good with what happened with my only patient, Bianca Perez. You had to have been involved.”
“Obviously,” Andrea said. “When I was called to her room just after two a.m. and heard what was happening, I was horrified to learn her name. I knew her having major complications was going to be a serious downer for you.”
“ ‘Downer’ isn’t nearly a strong enough word,” Mitt said. “ ‘Devastating’ is closer to the truth. She was my only patient. I’m starting to feel directly responsible.”
“Oh, come on! Let’s not be melodramatic. You and I are totally green as first-year residents. Hell, it’s only our third day. You are not responsible. No way. I’m sorry, but that’s being way too paranoid.”
“I know that rationally. At the same time how can I not feel some responsibility? Except for Dr. Geraldo Rodriguez, I’m the only connection between all four patients.”
Andrea looked askance at Mitt. “Are you being serious? Come on!”
“I don’t know if I’m being serious or not,” Mitt admitted. He nervously ran both hands through his hair, shook his head, and then looked directly at Andrea. For a split second, he was tempted to bring up the hallucinations he’d been having to get her take and have a sympathetic ear. As they had been talking, he’d progressively realized it was the combination of the hallucinations and the deaths that was really getting to him. If it had only been one or the other, he probably would have been able to take it in stride. But the two simultaneously was something else entirely. Yet now that he’d broached the idea of responsibility, he felt he had to justify it. “Let me put it this way: It’s a combination of the deaths and my insecurities about being a resident, with one magnifying the other,” he added, as it was true. “I don’t know about you, but I’m constantly on edge, terrified I’m going to be asked a question or to do something I’m incapable of doing. A few minutes ago, I was in the ICU to check on Perez, and I was a nervous wreck. I couldn’t wait to get the hell out.”
For a moment, he stared at his co-resident to gauge if she bought his explanation. He wasn’t willing to admit to the hallucinations. If it had been the other way around and she told him she was experiencing recurring hallucinations of a blond preadolescent girl and suffering fleeting phantosmias, he’d be seriously concerned about her, maybe even questioning if she should be a surgical resident.
“I’m with you in relation to the anxieties of feeling unprepared,” Andrea said. “But I’m certainly not with you in feeling responsible for what’s happened to your patients. To be honest, listening to you makes me think you’re suffering from a touch of ‘illusory superiority.’ ” Andrea added the last part with a half laugh, obviously trying to inject a bit of humor into the conversation.
“Okay, I get it. You’re teasing me now,” Mitt said. He took a deep breath, then forced a smile. There was some truth to what she was saying. There really was no way he could be responsible. He was, as she’d suggested, giving himself too much credit.
“Of course I’m teasing,” Andrea said. “You deserve to be teased, saying something so ridiculous. I can assure you that Dr. Rodriguez doesn’t feel in the least bit responsible despite his being on the same cases as you.”
“Okay, okay,” Mitt said. “Enough about me. What about you? How was your night, besides having to deal with the mental trauma and sleep deprivation caused by my patient?”