6
* * *
WEDNESDAY, 4:05 P.M., MARCH 20, 1996
Susanne Hard was looking through the small, round window of the door to the elevator lobby with rapt attention. The end of the corridor was as far as she was allowed to go on her ambulation. She’d been walking with little steps while supporting her freshly sutured abdomen. As unpleasant as the exercise was, she knew from experience that the sooner she mobilized herself, the sooner she’d be in a position to demand release.
What had caught her attention out in the elevator lobby was the disturbing amount of traffic coming in and out of the medical ward as well as the nervous demeanor of the staff. Susanne’s sixth sense told her that something was wrong, especially with most of the people wearing masks.
Before she could put a finger on the cause of the apparent stir, a literal chill passed through her like an icy arctic wind. Turning around, she expected to feel a draft. There wasn’t any. Then the chill returned, causing her to tense and shiver until it had passed. Susanne looked down at her hands. They had turned bone white.
Increasingly anxious, Susanne started back to her room. Such a chill could not be a good sign. As an experienced patient she knew there was always the fear of a wound infection.
By the time she entered her room she had a headache behind her eyes. As she climbed back into bed, the headache spread over the top of her head. It wasn’t like any headache she’d ever had before. It felt as if someone were pushing an awl into the depths of her brain.
For a few panicky moments Susanne lay perfectly still, hoping that whatever had seemed wrong was now all right. But instead a new symptom developed: the muscles of her legs began to ache. Within minutes she found herself writhing in the bed, vainly trying to find a position that afforded relief.
Close on the heels of the leg pain came an overall malaise that settled over her like a stifling blanket. It was so enervating that she could barely reach across her chest for the nurse’s call button.
She pressed it and let her arm fall limply back to the bed.
By the time the nurse came into the room, Susanne had developed a cough that chafed her already irritated throat. “I feel sick,” Susanne croaked. “How so?” the nurse questioned.
Susanne shook her head. It was even hard to talk. She felt so terrible she didn’t know where to begin.
“I have a headache,” she managed.
“I believe you have a standing order of pain medication,” the nurse said. “I’ll get it for you.”
“I need my doctor,” Susanne whispered. Her throat felt as bad as when she’d first awakened from the anesthesia.
“I think we should try the pain medicine before we call your doctor,” the nurse said.
“I feel cold,” Susanne said. “Terribly cold.”
The nurse put a practiced band on Susanne’s forehead, then pulled it back in alarm. Susanne was burning up. The nurse took the thermometer from its container on the bedside table and stuck it into Susanne’s mouth. While she waited for the thermometer to equilibrate, she wrapped a blood-pressure cuff around Susanne’s arm. The blood pressure was low.
She then took the thermometer out of Susanne’s mouth. When she saw what the reading was, she let out a little gasp of surprise. It was 106 Fahrenheit.
“Do I have a fever?” Susanne questioned.
“A little one,” the nurse said. “But everything is going to be fine. I’ll go and give your doctor a call.”
Susanne nodded. A tear came to the corner of her eye. She didn’t want this kind of complication. She wanted to go home.
7
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WEDNESDAY, 4:35 P.M., MARCH 20, 1996
“Do you honestly think that Robert Barker deliberately sabotaged our ad campaign?” Colleen asked Terese as they descended the stairs. They were on their way to the studio where Colleen wanted to show Terese what the creative team had put together for a new National Health campaign.
“There’s not a doubt in my mind,” Terese said. “Of course, he didn’t do it himself. He had Helen do it by talking National Health out of buying adequate exposure time.”