The Real Doctor Will See You Shortly by Matt McCarthy

indeed.”
    â€œI’ll have to admit I don’t remember all of the medications he received.”
    â€œNo problem,” he replied. “I have a list right in front of me. I’ll read them to you.”
    A medical variation of the Socratic method, I suspected, as he went through the list. It was a little annoying. I already had one Baio.
    â€œI…I think several of them can cause pupillary constriction,” I offered.
    â€œRight again.” There was a pause, and I looked at Baio, who was revolving his fingers to indicate that I should wrap up the conversation. It was time for me to insert the large IV.
    â€œBut how many, Dr. McCarthy, cause unilateral pupillary constriction of the kind you observed?”
    I thought for a moment, suddenly wondering if I was speaking with another resident or an attending. “Off the top of my head…” I said.
    â€œOh, Doctor, this need not be off the top of your head.” His speech was becoming urgent. “Please, use references. Use a textbook. Use the Internet. Phone a friend. But please tell me, in all of medical literature, has anyone ever identified an intravenous medication that shrinks one pupil but not the other?”
    Another pause. Now I wasn’t sure.
    â€œThe answer is no!” he screamed.
    My head shot back from the phone.
    â€œCarl Gladstone was on a blood thinner for a clot in his leg. When he fell and hit his head in his classroom,” Sothscott continued, barely able to contain himself, “he started bleeding in his brain.”
    I closed my eyes.
    â€œAnd I know you know he fell because you documented the abrasion on his scalp.”
    â€œOh…no,” I said softly and turned away from Baio.
    â€œOh, yes. And when you saw him, Dr. McCarthy, the blood was flooding his brain and starting to impinge on his cranial nerves.”
    I couldn’t breathe.
    â€œYet your note does not reflect that. Your note is completely misleading. And it does a shocking disservice to—”
    â€œI…”
    â€œHow much time was wasted?” he demanded.
    â€œI am so sorry.” I wanted to hide. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go. I was terrified to think of what I had done to Carl Gladstone. It had been more than a day since the Badass had said to scan his head. Was he bleeding the whole time until he reached Sothscott? That kind of time could have killed him. My knees buckled and I crouched toward the tiled floor, gasping for air as my eyes welled up.

8
    The conversation with Sothscott left me hollow, paralyzed. I closed my eyes, tracing and retracing the creases in my palms as I tried to make sense of it. I had just told Carl Gladstone’s wife that he was going to be okay, that he’d get through this, all as I had almost single-handedly assured that this would not be the case. I dug my fingernails deep into my hands, creating a physical discomfort that served as a blissful, vivifying moment of distraction from the perverse mixture of worry, fear, and anxiety. I opened my eyes and again examined the creases. They almost formed letters—an
A
in my left palm and an
M
in my right. I searched for significance but drew a blank. Then I felt a tap on the shoulder.
    â€œWhat is this?” Baio asked. “What’s happening?” Trying to compose myself, I looked up. Did Baio already know about the error? Did Dr. Badass? “Are some amazing things happening here?”
    â€œWell.” Part of me wanted to blurt out the entire conversation with Sothscott. But a bigger part didn’t. Baio wasn’t responsible for leaving notes on patients; that was the intern’s job. There was no documentation of his faulty reasoning, only my own. I felt like I was going to throw up.
    â€œAre you okay?” he asked.
    â€œNot really.”
    â€œYou look terrible.”
    â€œI’m not feeling well.” I didn’t know where to begin.