The Real Doctor Will See You Shortly by Matt McCarthy Page A

“I’ll be back in a minute,” I murmured.
    I went to the only place of refuge I could think of—the call room, with its lilac walls, buzzing fluorescent lights, and flimsy bunk beds. It would almost certainly be deserted at this time of day. I punched in the three-digit code and headed for the bathroom. Catching a brief image of my face in the mirror—I looked like wet shit—I bit my bottom lip and dry-heaved over the toilet bowl.
    My arms went limp as my face turned into a damp mess. But I had to get back to the CCU. In the room next to Benny’s, there was a young woman in need of the large-bore IV. I threw cold water on my face and tried to focus on her story so I could momentarily forget about my own. Her name was Denise Lundquist, and she had just been transferred to us from a hospital in New Jersey. Baio had obtained her medical records and explained to me that a few days earlier, she had come home from work to find her husband, Peter, in the kitchen, holding his head in his hands. Peter informed Denise that her brother had been killed in a traffic accident. Upon hearing this, Denise collapsed; minutes later an ambulance arrived and took her to a local hospital, where it was revealed that she, like Gladstone, had suffered a massive heart attack.
    It was a terrible story, but the details were a welcome distraction. After a seemingly successful catheterization, Denise’s heart had continued to deteriorate as her lungs filled with fluid. Doctors ultimately placed her on a respirator, at which point they also made the decision to transfer her to our CCU, which was better equipped to deal with such critically ill, unstable patients.
    I grabbed a paper towel and dabbed my face. I had to get back to work. Denise needed the large IV to receive a cocktail of potentially lifesaving medications, and every second I spent in the call room delayed her treatment. When I reentered the CCU a minute later, Baio had already started the procedure. By the time I had put on my gloves and disposable gown, the IV had been inserted.
    â€œGo home, dude,” Baio said as he walked out of the room. “Come back when you’re ready to work.”
    I shook my head, remembering some of the first words he ever said to me:
We have to work as a team. Everything is teamwork.
    â€œSeriously,” he said, glancing around the unit. “Go. There’s not much left to do today. Go.”
    After a weak protest, I was on the southbound 1 train to my apartment, wondering how my absence might affect the others. What would they think? Exiting at Seventy-Ninth Street, I blew past my large Eastern Bloc doorman with a small wave before he could get a word out. Heather was still at work, seeing patients in her primary care clinic. I had the apartment to myself. I dropped my shoulder bag and spilled its contents—stethoscope, white coat, and a small bible called
Pocket Medicine
—on my living room floor, collapsed on the couch, and slept soundly through the night.
    I woke the next morning to the caterwauls of small children outside my window, and immediately my anxiety came flooding back. How was I going to face the day? I had no emotional frame of reference for something like this. Something so grave, so awful. A swirl of questions bombarded my conscience. What had happened to Carl Gladstone after he left the unit? What would I say to Baio? Should I just keep the phone call to myself and move on? And was that even possible? If someone found out, were we in danger of being sued? I imagined for a moment having to tell people that I’d been a doctor for two days but then I accidentally killed someone. The thought made me almost throw up again.
    I pulled an outfit out of my closet and took a deep breath as I recalled a small silver lining: my schedule today would take me out of the cardiac care unit in the afternoon, down to the other end of 168th Street to begin work in a primary care clinic. As part of my