“Looks routine,” the nurse said. “Primipara. Twenty-four. Healthy.”
“Who’s the attending?”
“Simarian,” the nurse replied.
Jeffrey said he’d be over shortly and hung up the phone. Simarian, Jeffrey pondered, thinking it a wash. The guy was technically fine but Jeffrey found his patronizing manner toward patients a bit trying. Thank God it wasn’t Braxton or Hicks. He wanted the case to go smoothly and hopefully quickly; if it had been either of the others, that wouldn’t have been the case.
Leaving the anesthesia office, he headed down the main OR corridor, passing the scheduling desk and its attendant bustle of activity. The evening shift was due in a few minutes; the changing of the guard inevitably spelled momentary chaos.
Jeffrey pushed through the double swing doors of the surgical lounge and yanked off the mask which hung limply on his chest, dangling by its elastic. He tossed it into the waste receptacle with relief, he’d been breathing through the blasted thing for the last six hours.
The lounge was abuzz with staff members coming on shift. Jeffrey ignored them and passed through to the locker room, which was just as crowded. He paused in front of the mirror, curious to see if he looked as bad as he felt. He did. His eyes seemed to have receded, they appeared so sunken.
Below each was a dark indelible crescent-shaped smudge. Even Jeffrey’s mustache seemed the worse for wear and tear, though what could he expect after having kept it under the wraps of the surgi-. cal mask for six solid hours.
Like most doctors resisting the chronic’hypochondriasis induced by medical school, Jeffrey often erred at the other ex-
treme: he denied or ignored every symptom of illness or sign of fatigue, until it threatened to overwhelm him. Today was no exception. From the moment he’d awakened that morning at six, he’d felt terrible. Although he’d been feeling run down for days, he first ascribed the light-headedness and chills to something he’d eaten the night before. When the waves of nausea came midmorning, Jeffrey was quick to attribute it to too much coffee. And when the headache and the diarrhea started in the early afternoon, he pinned it on the soup he’d had for lunch in the hospital cafeteria.
Only as he confronted his haggard reflection in the miffor of the surgical locker room did Jeffrey finally admit he was ill. He was probably coming down with the flu that had been going around the hospital for the last month. He put the flat of his wrist to his forehead for a rough check of his temperature. There was no doubt about it: it was hot.
Leaving the sink, Jeffrey went to his locker, grateful that the day was almost over. The idea of bed was the most appealing vision he could conjure.
Jeffrey sat on the bench, oblivious to the chatting crowd, and began to twirl his combination lock. He felt worse than ever. His stomach gurgled unpleasantly; his intestines were in agony. A passing cramp brought beads of perspiration to his brow. Unless someone could relieve him, he’d’still be on duty for another few hours.
Stopping at the final number, Jeffrey opened his locker. Reaching within the neatly arranged interior, he retrieved a bottle of paregoric, an old remedy his mother used to force on him when he was a child. His mother had consistently diagnosed him as suffering from either constipation or diarrhea. It wasn’t until he got to high school that Jeffrey realized these diagnoses were just excuses to get him to take his mother’s cherished cure-all. Over the years, Jeffrey had developed a confidence in paregoric, if not in his mother’s diagnostic skills. He always kept a bottle on hand.
Unscrewing the cap, he tilted his head back and took a healthy swig. Wiping his mouth, he noticed an orderly sitting next to him watching his every move.
.’Want a swig?” Jeffrey asked, grinning, extending the bottle toward the man. “Great stuff.”
The man gave him a disgusted look and got up and left.
Jeffrey shook his head at the man’s lack of a sense of humor. From his reaction you’d have thought he’d offered him poison.
With uncharacteristic slowness, Jeffrey took off his scrubs. Briefly massaging his temples, he then pushed himself to his feet and went in to shower. After sudsing and rinsing, he stood under the rushing water five minutes before stepping out and drying himself briskly. Brushing his wavy, sandy-brown hair, Jeffrey dressed in clean scrubs, donned a new mask and a new hat. He felt considerably better now. Except for an occasional gurgle, even his colon seemed to be cooperating-at least for the moment.