ADRENALINE: New 2013 edition (18 page)

“Oh, I love that one. Does your wife like it too?”

Alarm klaxons ripped through his confused brain. My wife!? How does she know? “Uh—yeah—but, she’s not going. She can’t because the boys have Christmas pageants at school.” No need for secrets now.

“Oh, that’s too bad.”

Yeah, too bad. He grimaced slightly.

“How many boys do you have, Doug?” she asked sweetly.

Doug paused, feeling very self-conscious. He looked around to see where the other nurses or respiratory therapist were. No one in sight. He knew the last thing he wanted was to be seen having a long, personal discussion with Jenny. He was nervous that everyone would see through him and realize the extent of his desire. Camouflaging feelings of this magnitude was undoubtedly beyond him. And he knew that gossip spread like wildfire throughout the hospital.

“I—we have three—twelve, seven, and three.”

“Wow, I just love kids—boys especially.” She looked at his eyes, waiting for him to meet her gaze.

“Me, too.” He looked around again, this time possibly for help. Still no one around. He was drawn irresistibly to her eyes and reluctantly surrendered to their power.

Jenny reached out with her hand again and touched his arm. More electricity. She lowered her voice and said, “I could meet you down there for lunch, or something, Saturday. It might be easier to talk there than here.” She tossed her head about to indicate the surroundings and her blond hair danced playfully.

“Yeah, you’re right about that—hmmm lunch—let me think.”

Think about the ‘or something’
.

Just say no!

Don’t you feel it?

Are you crazy?

The tug of war was going badly. The home team seemed to have been electrocuted by some unknown force and was being dragged pell-mell through the mud, past the centerline.

“I’d like that,” he heard himself say.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Bob Lehman rolled over in bed, luxuriating in the fact that on some deeper level, he knew he was sleeping late. Sunday mornings were glorious. He bobbed over the threshold of consciousness only to sink down again into the warm, peaceful womb of dreamland. He imagined himself frolicking in the surf off the southern shores of Bermuda. He was no longer a sixty-year-old widower inured to a hard life, but a young man of twenty-six on his honeymoon again with his pretty bride. Worries didn’t exist in this timeless domain. Mistakes had not been made. Their life together stretched out in front of them, not behind, with an intoxicating array of shiny new dreams and possibilities unspoiled by the harsh realities of life.

The fresh ocean breeze gently caressed his face. He lingered at the edge of the water, eyes closed, to take a deep breath, savoring the saltwater scent. Suddenly, the air was flooded with a pleasant coffee aroma carried on the breeze. The young man did not find this strange, even though they were on a deserted beach; in fact, he thought this
was the most natural of meteorological phenomena. Just as dark clouds presage rain, gentle ocean breezes often smell of coffee.

April walked into the bedroom and saw that her father was sleeping. She paused to look at him and smiled when she realized he was probably in the midst of a dream. He was a bear of a man, well over six feet tall with enormous shoulders and thick hairy arms. His face was angular with rough-hewn features, most notably a large flat nose and jutting chin, but his appearance was marred by the numerous lines that zigzagged across his face. They were cut ravine deep, a testament to the hard duty they had seen channeling all the pain and sorrow from his face. This morning a small smile softened his usual careworn features.

She hated to wake him, but couldn’t wait any longer. “Daddy, Daddy, Happy Birthday!” she squealed with delight. “Look what I’ve brought you!” She carefully set down her heavily laden tray on the nightstand by the bed. “It’s ten o’clock. Wake up sleepyhead. Here’s your favorite breakfast, and fresh brewed coffee.” The favorite breakfast consisted of scrambled eggs, slightly gooey, laced with melted Monterey Jack cheese and mushrooms. Fresh sausage, pan-fried to a delicious golden-brown, rounded out the meal.

Bob Lehman opened his eyes, and his smile broadened as he saw April and the breakfast tray. “April, is it really ten o’clock? You shouldn’t have let me sleep so long.” He sat up in bed and stretched his massive arms. “I
was
having a really nice dream though.”

April was clearly excited about her father’s birthday. She had good reason to be. Just six months ago, she wasn’t sure there would be another birthday to celebrate. Bob Lehman had undergone emergency coronary artery bypass grafting just before the Fourth of July.

He had been at the office when he developed crushing chest pain and was rushed to the local community hospital, Our Lady of Mercy. April had taken the call at home and had raced to the emergency room just in time to see her father being wheeled to the cardiac catheterization lab. She remembered her father’s ashen complexion and perspiration-soaked gown. But these were nothing compared to the thinly veiled look of terror in his eyes. She kissed him and gave him a quick hug in spite of the tangle of EKG leads, IV tubing, arterial line, and oxygen hoses crisscrossing his body. She told him she loved him and would see him shortly, when this was all taken care of.
Oh please, God, pull him through. I swear I’ll do anything
.

The emergency room physician had told her they would try to dissolve the offending clot with a new drug called “tissue plasminogen activator,” or “tpa” for short, but they also needed to obtain some pictures of the blood vessels feeding the heart—the all important coronary arteries. Unfortunately, they only had about four hours before the damage to the heart muscle became irreversible. A myocardial infarction would be the result. This translated into death of a portion of the heart muscle and could be fatal.

April remembered the agonizing wait while her father was in the cath lab. When one of the interns came out and told her he was being rushed to the OR for emergency bypass surgery, she was beside herself with fear and dread. Only last year she had watched her mother die in this hospital; it was a horrible, suffering death as only metastatic cancer can provide. Now she was to lose her father. She quickly made more promises to God, not holding back anything.

Her father survived his surgery and actually did quite well. He had only one minor complication—an incisional hernia that was scheduled to be repaired the following day as an outpatient. He appeared to thoroughly enjoy his birthday, and April marveled
that he spared little energy worrying about the upcoming surgery. She only wished she could be so relaxed.

It was late Sunday night, and Rusty Cramer knew he should’ve been in bed. Instead, he pored over his computer screen. He had finally received the e-mail he had been waiting all weekend for. He read it and reread it. Rusty shut down his computer and ran his fingers through his hair. Things were coming together. He got up from his chair, paced around the room for a few minutes, and then made his decision. He would skip the Visiting Professor lecture series tomorrow. Perhaps Wednesday, he would take a trip to Philadelphia. He had more business to attend to.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It was 11:45 a.m. Monday morning, and Melissa Draybeck was dutifully setting up for a noontime lap choley in OR#2. She was a conscientious OR scrub nurse with considerable experience built up over twenty years of service to Mercy Hospital. Melissa prided herself on her rigid, sterile technique and extensive knowledge of surgeons’ operative techniques including the vast array of surgical instruments involved. This was no mean feat, considering virtually every surgeon had a rather large laundry list of likes and dislikes for everything under the sun, including which gown to put on (Gore-Tex or regular), which gloves (latex, rubber, non-allergenic, orthopedic, Vaseline wipe before gloving), which surgical instruments, which OR room, which OR table, which suture, which dressings, etc. And of course, each surgeon believed his technique was the only logical choice and therefore expected the nurses to anticipate his needs or there would be hell to pay.

Thank God most ORs, in an effort to pander to the surgeons and preserve the sanity of their staff, made up a card for each
surgeon and his individual operations. A general surgeon might have ten cards—one for his laparoscopic cholecystectomy, one for his bowel resection, one for his herniorrhaphy, etc. This gave the poor scrub nurse some degree of protection from the wrath of God when the demanded instrument was not immediately on hand. Melissa knew how the conversation went:

“I’ll need a thirty-degree scope for this part.”

“We’ll get you one in a minute, Doctor. We just have to run down the hall and get it from Central.”

“What! You don’t have it in the room? Damn it! I always use a thirty-degree scope. That’s gotta be on my card. I never have this problem at Poly.”

“Let me see, Doctor. Sorry, it’s not on your card. Would you like us to add that?”

“Yes of course, damn it! I don’t ever want to have to wait for that again. I could’ve sworn I’ve told you to add that before.”

She shook her head and wondered what had led her to this tough job. She remembered a time when she had had different plans for her life. As a young woman, newly graduated from nursing school, she had envisioned herself married with children someday, but the proper relationship never materialized for reasons she cared not to examine too closely. She knew she was no beauty, but it was more than this. Although she continued to date sporadically, deep down she knew she was not marriage material. She was so set in her ways that she couldn’t imagine giving up her relaxed, if somewhat dull, free, if somewhat lonely, lifestyle for some man. Or more correctly she believed, for some man who would be interested in her. She had long since given up on the idea, and now appreciated the freedom of no children or husband. Melissa’s life was reasonably simple, and she was reasonably content with it, although she might have defined content as resigned.

She realized what gave her life meaning was her job. At work, she could put her lonely existence of making rent and cooking meals for one on hold and participate first hand in real-life drama
more exciting than any of the soaps she watched. Although many of the physicians, especially surgeons, fell into the love-to-hate category, she would never characterize them as boring. Flamboyant, rude, obnoxious, egomaniacs, prima donnas, greedy maybe, but not boring. On some deeper level, Melissa was vaguely aware that she came to work each day not solely for a paycheck, but to fill a void in her life.