“You don’t mind?” Kim asked.
“Hell, no,” Tom said. “Get over there and check on Becky.”
“Thanks,” Kim said. He stepped back and pulled off his gown and gloves.
As Kim pulled open the heavy OR door, Tom called out: “Between myself and Jane, we’ll write the post-op orders. If there’s anything else I can do, just call.”
“I appreciate it,” Kim said. He hurried into the surgical locker room where he picked up a long white coat to pull on over his scrubs. He was eager to get to the ICU and didn’t want to take the time to change back into his street clothes.
Kim had visited the intensive-care unit prior to and between each of his surgeries. Becky had shown some improvement, and there was some talk of trying to wean her off the respirator. Kim hadn’t allowed himself to become too hopeful, knowing she’d been on for less than twenty-four hours.
Kim had even found time prior to his first case to phone George again to ask if he could think of anything else they could do for Becky. Unfortunately he hadn’t had any suggestions, except for plasmaphoresis, which he didn’t recommend.
Kim had come across plasmaphoresis for E. coli 0157:H7 toxemia in his research in the library during Becky’s surgery. It involved replacing the patient’s plasma with pooled fresh frozen plasma. Unfortunately it was a controversial treatment considered experimental with an enormous attendant risk of HIV since the new plasma came from hundreds of different donors.
The doors to the elevator opened and Kim was dismayed to join a group of happy staffers leaving the hospital at the end of the day shift. He knew it was unreasonable of him, but he couldn’t help but be annoyed by their cheerful babble.
Getting off the elevator, Kim started down the hall. The closer he got to the ICU, the more nervous he became. He was almost beginning to feel a premonition.
He paused at the waiting-room threshold to see if Tracy was there. He knew she’d planned on going home to clean up and change clothes.
Kim saw her sitting in a chair near the window. She spotted him at almost the same moment and stood up. As she approached, Kim could see there’d been fresh tears. They streaked the side of her face.
“What’s wrong now?” he asked with dismay. “Has there been a change?”
For a moment Tracy could not speak. Kim’s question brought forth new tears that she had to choke back. “She’s worse,” Tracy managed. “Dr. Stevens talked about a cascading pattern of major organ failure. It was so much mumbo-jumbo to me, but she said that we should prepare ourselves. I think she was saying that Becky may die!”
“Becky’s not going to die!” Kim said with vehemence that bordered on anger. “What happened to make her suggest such a thing?”
“Becky has had a stroke,” Tracy said. “They think she’s blind.”
Kim shut his eyes hard. The idea of his ten-year-old daughter having a stroke seemed beyond any realm of possibility. Yet Kim well understood that her clinical course had been spiraling downward from the outset. That she may have reached the point of no return was not entirely surprising.
Leaving Tracy in the waiting room, Kim strode across the hall and entered the ICU. Mirroring the previous afternoon, a gaggle of doctors were pressed into Becky’s cubicle. Kim pushed his way in. He saw a new face: Dr. Sidney Hampton, neurology.
“Dr. Reggis,” Claire called.
Kim ignored the pediatrician. He muscled his way to the bedside and looked at his daughter. She was a pitiful shadow of her former self, lost within the wires and tubes, and the technology. Liquid crystal displays and monitor screens flashed their information in the form of digital readouts and tracing cursors.
Becky’s eyes were closed. Her skin was a translucent bluish white.
“Becky, it’s me, Dad,” Kim whispered into her ear. He studied her frozen face. She didn’t register any sign of hearing him.
“Unfortunately she’s unresponsive,” Claire said.
Kim straightened up. His breaths were shallow and rapid. “You think she’s had a stroke?”
“Every indication suggests as much,” Sidney said.
Kim had to remind himself not to blame the messenger.