ambivalent relationship with truth. It has been frequently harder to get medicine to admit the truth than to find it —witness that whole long history of lying to dying people about what was going to happen to them —as if they weren't going to find out, anyway. The good part was the hierarchy already thought of me as a "loose cannon," so I didn't have a lot to lose, reputation-wise —if you could call that a good part.
I put Willy's letter in the drawer. Unfortunately, the damn thing might be evidence for a future crime, and besides, I wanted to be able to reread it and think about it. There must be some way to figure out more about what Willy had in mind.
I headed down to the ED. Fred Flintstone had designed the elevators, so I took the stairs like most of the rest of the staff. I walked in the ED and headed for the nurses' station. "I'm looking for Dr. Stenson," I said. I was wearing my hospital ID pin with "Dr. M. Stone" on it, so the nurse, whom I didn't know, merely glanced up before directing me to a room down the hall. The movies didn't always get it wrong. It wouldn't be hard to impersonate a doctor. Great. Willy was already turning me into a complete paranoid. Already, I was thinking about how easy it would be for him to get access to the places I hung out.
I found Suzanne in the doctors' room writing notes in the chart. The doctors' room had a counter running around the room at sitting height, and docs were scattered around the room writing or making calls. Generally physicians wrote notes every time they saw a patient. This sounded good and it was good except it resulted in charts so thick that, after a while, nobody bothered to read the whole thing. Every once in a while, of course, that caused some sort of Big Problem.
Suzanne was an exception. She read the charts from cover to cover, no matter how many times the patient had been admitted. Suzanne kept reading for a moment before she looked up.
When she did, I saw the familiar circles under her eyes that told me she had been up all night. Medicine works its residents dangerously hard, putting them on twenty-four- or even thirty-six-hour shifts routinely. There are only a few states that outlaw it, and unfortunately, Vermont isn't one of them.
Of course, this is terrible for the patients, who get lousy care, and awful for the residents, who come to hate their lives. There is, too, the minor problem that it is bad for their training since nobody can think when they are that tired.
Despite all the excuses the hierarchy makes, it is done solely for one reason: money. Hiring people to work all those shifts would cost a ton of money. Residents are cheap, and basically, they have no rights.
Suzanne was slim—who had time to eat? —with shoulder-length dark hair and bright eyes. I don't know why psychology spends so much energy trying to develop IQ tests. You can make a pretty good guess at how bright people are by their eyes. Anyone who looked at Suzanne's and didn't know she was very, very bright indeed, needed an IQ test themselves.
"So," I said to Suzanne. "Always glad to have a patient of mine brighten your day. I know how bored you get sitting around with nothing to do."
"Actually," she said, "we don't see that many of your patients down here. I thought you were losing your touch, but, shucks, I found out you had only seen her once. I guess we can't expect even you to fix people in one visit."
"I don't know why not!" I replied. "Managed care does. So, what do you have?" I knew Suzanne didn't have a whole lot of time.
"Not much," she said. "What happened to this woman? She can't seem to tell us, and all we've got is she was crouched in the bushes hiding, going in and out of flashbacks."
"What's she saying during the flashbacks?"
Suzanne sighed. "Not much. She just goes into a panic state and curls up in a fetal position. Then we all start looking at the dog and hoping she doesn't think we're the problem."
"Meds?" I said.
"Enough Haldol to drop
I put Willy's letter in the drawer. Unfortunately, the damn thing might be evidence for a future crime, and besides, I wanted to be able to reread it and think about it. There must be some way to figure out more about what Willy had in mind.
I headed down to the ED. Fred Flintstone had designed the elevators, so I took the stairs like most of the rest of the staff. I walked in the ED and headed for the nurses' station. "I'm looking for Dr. Stenson," I said. I was wearing my hospital ID pin with "Dr. M. Stone" on it, so the nurse, whom I didn't know, merely glanced up before directing me to a room down the hall. The movies didn't always get it wrong. It wouldn't be hard to impersonate a doctor. Great. Willy was already turning me into a complete paranoid. Already, I was thinking about how easy it would be for him to get access to the places I hung out.
I found Suzanne in the doctors' room writing notes in the chart. The doctors' room had a counter running around the room at sitting height, and docs were scattered around the room writing or making calls. Generally physicians wrote notes every time they saw a patient. This sounded good and it was good except it resulted in charts so thick that, after a while, nobody bothered to read the whole thing. Every once in a while, of course, that caused some sort of Big Problem.
Suzanne was an exception. She read the charts from cover to cover, no matter how many times the patient had been admitted. Suzanne kept reading for a moment before she looked up.
When she did, I saw the familiar circles under her eyes that told me she had been up all night. Medicine works its residents dangerously hard, putting them on twenty-four- or even thirty-six-hour shifts routinely. There are only a few states that outlaw it, and unfortunately, Vermont isn't one of them.
Of course, this is terrible for the patients, who get lousy care, and awful for the residents, who come to hate their lives. There is, too, the minor problem that it is bad for their training since nobody can think when they are that tired.
Despite all the excuses the hierarchy makes, it is done solely for one reason: money. Hiring people to work all those shifts would cost a ton of money. Residents are cheap, and basically, they have no rights.
Suzanne was slim—who had time to eat? —with shoulder-length dark hair and bright eyes. I don't know why psychology spends so much energy trying to develop IQ tests. You can make a pretty good guess at how bright people are by their eyes. Anyone who looked at Suzanne's and didn't know she was very, very bright indeed, needed an IQ test themselves.
"So," I said to Suzanne. "Always glad to have a patient of mine brighten your day. I know how bored you get sitting around with nothing to do."
"Actually," she said, "we don't see that many of your patients down here. I thought you were losing your touch, but, shucks, I found out you had only seen her once. I guess we can't expect even you to fix people in one visit."
"I don't know why not!" I replied. "Managed care does. So, what do you have?" I knew Suzanne didn't have a whole lot of time.
"Not much," she said. "What happened to this woman? She can't seem to tell us, and all we've got is she was crouched in the bushes hiding, going in and out of flashbacks."
"What's she saying during the flashbacks?"
Suzanne sighed. "Not much. She just goes into a panic state and curls up in a fetal position. Then we all start looking at the dog and hoping she doesn't think we're the problem."
"Meds?" I said.
"Enough Haldol to drop
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