“Good for you to get yourself out of this hospital for a few hours,” Mitt said. “That’s a healthy idea, and I’ll try to do the same tomorrow. What I was going to say was... in fact, my thyroidectomy case was a superb anatomy lesson in a living, breathing human being. And that’s by far the best type of anatomy lesson.
“The attending surgeon’s name was Dr. Taylor Smith, and he was excellent. I got the definite sense he loves teaching. I hope I get to scrub with him often, and I hope you do, too. The only thing mildly unusual about the whole experience was the attending’s rather curious name. I’ve never met another male ‘Taylor,’ whereas his family name is one of the most common. Anyway, the combination caught my attention.”
“What are you talking about?” Andrea said with an exaggerated questioning expression. “Taylor is a fairly common name for both men and women. I know several.”
“Regardless,” Mitt said with a wave of dismissal. “The commonality of the name isn’t important. The point I’d like to emphasize is that this Dr. Taylor Smith is a born teacher. I learned more during this thyroidectomy today than in all my other surgeries put together. You’re going to love him if you get to work with him. Believe me!” Mitt heaved himself out of the rather low chair and got to his feet. As he did so, he experienced a fleeting touch of dizziness, which he attributed to low blood sugar. With that thought in mind, he noticed a bowl of individually wrapped peanut butter crackers over Andrea’s shoulder by the coffeepot and was momentarily tempted, but then he thought he could hold out another half hour or so for a real meal.
“Thanks for the heads-up about Dr. Smith,” Andrea said, getting to her feet as well. “I’ll look forward to scrubbing in with him. Before you go, let’s talk about tomorrow morning. What time do you want me to show up? My guess is it’s up to us, since there are no formal rounds.”
“Good question,” Mitt said. “I hadn’t given it any thought, to be truthful.” He’d had a premonition that the night ahead was not going to be pleasant, but he didn’t know how bad or at what point during the night it might be bad — late in the evening or early in the morning or both. But he did know that the worse the night turned out to be, the earlier he’d want to be relieved.
“Here’s my offer,” Andrea said. “If you are willing to hand off the baton as late as nine a.m., I’ll do your histories and physicals. That way you won’t have to come in to do them.”
“That’s very generous,” Mitt said. “But I don’t think it’s fair to burden you with my responsibilities just because I lucked out having the day off. As I said, I literally live around the corner. I don’t mind coming in. But nine a.m. is fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, I’m not sure. If it’s a bad night, I’ll kick myself for saying nine. But there’s no way to know, so let’s say nine.”
“Okay,” Andrea said. “Fair enough! I’m not going to fight you, that’s for sure.” She moved toward Mitt, offering first one cheek, then the other, in her usual warmhearted fashion.
After the gesture, Mitt glanced around the surgical lounge, feeling self-conscious. He couldn’t help it, but public displays of affection made him feel uncomfortable. He was relieved to see that no one paid them the slightest heed. Besides, there weren’t that many people in the surgical lounge at that moment.
Together they walked out to the elevator lobby as Andrea described in enthusiastic detail the restaurant she would soon visit. An up elevator came before a down, and Mitt waved to her as she boarded. “Good luck tonight,” she called out as the door began to close.
“Enjoy your dinner date,” Mitt responded, still waving. For a brief moment standing in the elevator lobby with Andrea gone, he experienced a strange sense of loneliness, as though he was being abandoned. He couldn’t explain his feeling, especially with several other people around him waiting for a down elevator. A moment later he was able to board and the feeling vanished. In its place was the more understandable and worrisome concern about his upcoming visit to the ICU.
Minutes later, Mitt pushed into the ICU and immediately felt a sense of déjà vu. He experienced the exact same anxiety over the threat of potential clinical catastrophe as he had that morning, although maybe it was a little more intense now that he had two patients. As he penetrated deeper, it got worse, and Mitt paused to decide if he should head immediately to 10 South and check on Perez or if he should stop and find out Aguilar’s location. Coming abreast of the bank of monitors made the decision for him.
Several of the people using the monitors nodded a greeting to him, and he nodded back, feeling a bit more welcome. Again, without sitting down, he typed in Elena Aguilar and was immediately rewarded with her location, 8 North.
Leaving the central desk, he made a snap decision to check on Perez first since he knew where that specific room was located and it happened to be physically closer to where he currently was. As he approached 10 South, he began to formulate what he’d like to see if it were up to him, namely that the woman was off the ventilator and conscious. He knew it was wishful thinking, but he indulged himself anyway. Since it was already after four in the afternoon, he knew the chances of Gabriela Martinez still being the nurse on duty were slim, so he planned on again admitting his newbie resident status up front.
Coming to the door of 10 South, he stopped short. Not only was Gabriela Martinez not there, but the patient wasn’t Bianca Perez. In the bed was an elderly Black man with white hair and a short white beard who was sitting up and sipping a cup of ice water. A second later, a nurse popped out of the connecting nurses’ station. Like everyone else in the ICU, she was dressed in surgical scrubs. She, too, was Black and didn’t look much older than Mitt’s twenty-three years, if that.
“What’s up?” the nurse questioned with a friendly smile. “Have you come for Mr. Henderson? He’s ready to go.”
“No,” Mitt said. Instinctively he leaned to the side to make absolutely certain he was in the correct room. He was. “I’m a first-year surgical resident,” he quickly added while trying not to believe what his mind was telling him. “I was coming to check on Bianca Perez, who was in here this morning. Has she been sent back to her regular assigned room?”
Without so much as a slight hesitation, the nurse approached Mitt, latched onto his right arm above the elbow, and drew him a couple of steps away from the room’s doorway and out of earshot of her current patient.
“Bianca Perez passed away this morning,” the nurse said quietly. “She had a cardiac arrest and was a DNR.”
For Mitt the information was like a slap in the face, and he recoiled. “No,” he said as if he had the power to alter reality, but then quickly added: “When did this happen?”
“Ten a.m. or thereabouts. You can find it on the record if need be.”
“Okay, yes, of course,” Mitt said. “Thank you for letting me know.”
“You’re welcome,” the nurse said. She raised her eyebrows as if asking if Mitt had any more questions.
Mitt spun around and headed toward the north-facing ICU patient rooms. As he walked, skirting various hustling people and passing a multitude of rooms, each with a very sick patient and at least one nurse, he felt numb, like he was in a nightmare and couldn’t wake up. What he was having to face was yet another patient death, meaning that all four of the initial cases that had been assigned to him had died: first Suárez, then Thompson and Silva, and now Perez. Can that have happened by chance? Mitt silently wondered. Knowing something about statistics, he was well aware the odds were very small indeed, and when he added in the fact that Elena Aguilar was doing poorly, it seemed almost beyond statistical probability.