practitioner in Vermont, would do with the plaintiff’s attorney now in her face. She couldn’t picture either of them sitting where she was at all. They would have gotten up and walked out without a second thought.
Her thoughts turned to Mass General. One of her favorite memories of childhood was playing hide-and-seek with her father and older brother in the Ether Dome, a semicircular surgical amphitheater where anesthesia was demonstrated for the first time. Her father was always “It.” They would scatter to different curved rows and crouch behind the white, wooden partitions, trying not to squeal or giggle as his footfalls approached. Afterward, when the vapor lights had come back on, her father would take them into his adjoining office in the Bulfinch Building, crouching to fit his six-foot, four-inch frame under the arched doors built when the average American was a good deal shorter and the hospital received patients by boat. There the eminent Dr. Thomas Ridgeway would reach into the large square freezer next to a lab bench and pull out paper-wrapped ice cream sandwiches for his children from among the tissue samples.
His co-workers would make a fuss of Tina and her brother. They’d always ask her brother, “Are you going to be an important doctor like your father?” Over time, she became increasingly annoyed that the lab techs and other doctors never asked her this question. Maybe her resolve to become a doctor began then. Even if it hadn’t, the burden of continuing the family’s legacy in medicine fell to her as soon as her brother dropped out of college. From that point on, her father and grandfather assumed Tina would be going to medical school and becoming the next Dr. Ridgeway in the family.
The deposition was now entering its second hour with no letup in sight. The facts were straightforward, but the lawyer appeared determined to wear down Tina, to get her to say something careless. Something he could have her read out loud at the trial, no doubt, Tina thought. She’d watched enough legal dramas on television to know how this would play out if she lost her cool and so, apparently, had Tompkins.
Mary Cash had arrived at Chelsea General with a meningioma, a benign tumor that could be removed surgically. One of the possible risks was damage to the olfactory nerve that ran near the cancerous growth. If that was nicked or cut, the patient would lose the sense of smell. The patients who heard about this potential side effect often dismissed it without a second thought. Compared with a tumor growing in their brain, smell was nothing, they reasoned. But smell was perhaps the least appreciated of the senses. For the unfortunate few who did lose it, the change could be dramatic. They’d lose the ability to smell the bloom of flowers or the smell of bread baking or fresh-cut grass. Possibly most upsetting, though, was the realization that when you could no longer smell your food, it never tasted as good. As a consequence, many would eat less, lose weight, and appreciate life less.
That’s where Mitch Tompkins came in. He was suing Chelsea General, Dr. Tina Ridgeway, resident Michelle Robidaux, and every other doctor or nurse who had so much as looked at Mary Cash. If it weren’t for the outrageous sum Tompkins was demanding, the hospital would have settled by now. Tompkins wanted twenty-two million dollars: one million for failure to adequately warn Mary Cash of the risks, one million for damaging the nerve, ten million for lost earnings, and ten million for loss of “hedonic pleasure.” Hedonic pleasure was a catchall phrase referring to life’s enjoyment. Plaintiff’s lawyers used it if the outcome of their treatment left them unable to walk, see, play golf, have sex. You name it. There was even the case of a woman who had a small bone lodged in her throat that escaped the attention of the ER doc. She claimed the injury sustained resulted in her inability to perform fellatio, proving that any and
Her thoughts turned to Mass General. One of her favorite memories of childhood was playing hide-and-seek with her father and older brother in the Ether Dome, a semicircular surgical amphitheater where anesthesia was demonstrated for the first time. Her father was always “It.” They would scatter to different curved rows and crouch behind the white, wooden partitions, trying not to squeal or giggle as his footfalls approached. Afterward, when the vapor lights had come back on, her father would take them into his adjoining office in the Bulfinch Building, crouching to fit his six-foot, four-inch frame under the arched doors built when the average American was a good deal shorter and the hospital received patients by boat. There the eminent Dr. Thomas Ridgeway would reach into the large square freezer next to a lab bench and pull out paper-wrapped ice cream sandwiches for his children from among the tissue samples.
His co-workers would make a fuss of Tina and her brother. They’d always ask her brother, “Are you going to be an important doctor like your father?” Over time, she became increasingly annoyed that the lab techs and other doctors never asked her this question. Maybe her resolve to become a doctor began then. Even if it hadn’t, the burden of continuing the family’s legacy in medicine fell to her as soon as her brother dropped out of college. From that point on, her father and grandfather assumed Tina would be going to medical school and becoming the next Dr. Ridgeway in the family.
The deposition was now entering its second hour with no letup in sight. The facts were straightforward, but the lawyer appeared determined to wear down Tina, to get her to say something careless. Something he could have her read out loud at the trial, no doubt, Tina thought. She’d watched enough legal dramas on television to know how this would play out if she lost her cool and so, apparently, had Tompkins.
Mary Cash had arrived at Chelsea General with a meningioma, a benign tumor that could be removed surgically. One of the possible risks was damage to the olfactory nerve that ran near the cancerous growth. If that was nicked or cut, the patient would lose the sense of smell. The patients who heard about this potential side effect often dismissed it without a second thought. Compared with a tumor growing in their brain, smell was nothing, they reasoned. But smell was perhaps the least appreciated of the senses. For the unfortunate few who did lose it, the change could be dramatic. They’d lose the ability to smell the bloom of flowers or the smell of bread baking or fresh-cut grass. Possibly most upsetting, though, was the realization that when you could no longer smell your food, it never tasted as good. As a consequence, many would eat less, lose weight, and appreciate life less.
That’s where Mitch Tompkins came in. He was suing Chelsea General, Dr. Tina Ridgeway, resident Michelle Robidaux, and every other doctor or nurse who had so much as looked at Mary Cash. If it weren’t for the outrageous sum Tompkins was demanding, the hospital would have settled by now. Tompkins wanted twenty-two million dollars: one million for failure to adequately warn Mary Cash of the risks, one million for damaging the nerve, ten million for lost earnings, and ten million for loss of “hedonic pleasure.” Hedonic pleasure was a catchall phrase referring to life’s enjoyment. Plaintiff’s lawyers used it if the outcome of their treatment left them unable to walk, see, play golf, have sex. You name it. There was even the case of a woman who had a small bone lodged in her throat that escaped the attention of the ER doc. She claimed the injury sustained resulted in her inability to perform fellatio, proving that any and
Similar Books
