gardens and a bamboo forest.
The avowed goal of the Hippocrates Society was to recapture the practice of medicine from the capricious and viselike grip of the managed-care industry. Begun originally in San Francisco, the Society now had chapters in Chicago, Philadelphia, New York, and Houston, as well as its most rapidly expanding member, Boston. It was named for the fourth-century BC Greek physician, who was now widely recognized as the father of medicine. Hippocrates held the then-heretical belief that illness had a physical and rational explanation and did not represent possession of the body by evil spirits. He also preached the natural healing properties of rest, a good diet, fresh air, and cleanliness, and wrote the Oath of Medical Ethics taken today at most medical-school graduations.
Will arrived at the medical society with fifteen minutes to spare before the seven P.M . start. He had spent the last hour with John Doe, who had, over the past forty-eight hours, made the transition from near-hopeless physical disaster to medical miracle. Following his remarkable surgery there had been a rocky period during which his coma remained dense, his temperature once reached 106 degrees, and his systolic blood pressure persisted below 80 despite the most vigorous treatment.
To make matters worse, the shock and hypothermia had caused his kidneys to shut down, producing no urine output at all. Will brought in specialists from cardiology, neurology, and nephrology—the kidney experts. He and his residents delicately monitored dozens of body chemicals, working under the dangling sword of nonfunctioning kidneys, which meant that toxins couldn’t be cleared from John Doe’s body. In addition, without kidneys, the blood level of administered medications was a challenge to control and could, in fact, have easily become a source of lethal complications.
Hour after hour, the man’s life hung by the thinnest of threads. Suddenly, twenty hours after Will had stepped back from the operating table and stripped off his gloves signaling the end of the surgery, a single magnificent drop of urine appeared in John Doe’s catheter . . . then, a minute later, there was another. Kidney function was returning, and from a treatment standpoint, anything was now possible. Will, the nurses, the residents, and the nephrologist toasted the event in the nurses’ lounge with coffee and stale doughnuts.
Just three hours ago, nearly two days after he was left for dead in an alley, the man remarkably and progressively regained consciousness. All at once John Doe had a real name—Jack Langley—and a life. He was a salesman from Des Moines, lowa, and father of three, and had been incapacitated by sudden, severe abdominal pain. He was down on one knee when he was attacked by three men. Fortunately, it appeared that Langley wasn’t conscious for most of the ensuing beating. Now, hardly out of the woods but certainly improving, Langley was filling the nurses in on the details of his life even as they were bringing him up to speed on his close brush with mortality.
Will was pleased to find that most of the medical society amphitheater’s 140 state-of-the-art conference seats were occupied. As he stepped into the hall, he was immediately surrounded by colleagues wanting some sort of update on the latest in the managed-care killings. As head of publicity and public relations for the Boston chapter for the past two years, Will had expected to be contacted by the press if not the police, but so far nothing.
An eager OB named Runyon, clearly more interested in what he had to say than in any grisly headlines, captured the conversation.
“So, get this one, Will. Twenty-three-year-old woman develops severe abdominal cramping. It’s the holiday weekend, so she gets called by the HMO on-call doc, who phones in a scrip for indigestion. The office is closed for the weekend, so no arrangements are made for follow-up. She is worse by morning and calls again and
The avowed goal of the Hippocrates Society was to recapture the practice of medicine from the capricious and viselike grip of the managed-care industry. Begun originally in San Francisco, the Society now had chapters in Chicago, Philadelphia, New York, and Houston, as well as its most rapidly expanding member, Boston. It was named for the fourth-century BC Greek physician, who was now widely recognized as the father of medicine. Hippocrates held the then-heretical belief that illness had a physical and rational explanation and did not represent possession of the body by evil spirits. He also preached the natural healing properties of rest, a good diet, fresh air, and cleanliness, and wrote the Oath of Medical Ethics taken today at most medical-school graduations.
Will arrived at the medical society with fifteen minutes to spare before the seven P.M . start. He had spent the last hour with John Doe, who had, over the past forty-eight hours, made the transition from near-hopeless physical disaster to medical miracle. Following his remarkable surgery there had been a rocky period during which his coma remained dense, his temperature once reached 106 degrees, and his systolic blood pressure persisted below 80 despite the most vigorous treatment.
To make matters worse, the shock and hypothermia had caused his kidneys to shut down, producing no urine output at all. Will brought in specialists from cardiology, neurology, and nephrology—the kidney experts. He and his residents delicately monitored dozens of body chemicals, working under the dangling sword of nonfunctioning kidneys, which meant that toxins couldn’t be cleared from John Doe’s body. In addition, without kidneys, the blood level of administered medications was a challenge to control and could, in fact, have easily become a source of lethal complications.
Hour after hour, the man’s life hung by the thinnest of threads. Suddenly, twenty hours after Will had stepped back from the operating table and stripped off his gloves signaling the end of the surgery, a single magnificent drop of urine appeared in John Doe’s catheter . . . then, a minute later, there was another. Kidney function was returning, and from a treatment standpoint, anything was now possible. Will, the nurses, the residents, and the nephrologist toasted the event in the nurses’ lounge with coffee and stale doughnuts.
Just three hours ago, nearly two days after he was left for dead in an alley, the man remarkably and progressively regained consciousness. All at once John Doe had a real name—Jack Langley—and a life. He was a salesman from Des Moines, lowa, and father of three, and had been incapacitated by sudden, severe abdominal pain. He was down on one knee when he was attacked by three men. Fortunately, it appeared that Langley wasn’t conscious for most of the ensuing beating. Now, hardly out of the woods but certainly improving, Langley was filling the nurses in on the details of his life even as they were bringing him up to speed on his close brush with mortality.
Will was pleased to find that most of the medical society amphitheater’s 140 state-of-the-art conference seats were occupied. As he stepped into the hall, he was immediately surrounded by colleagues wanting some sort of update on the latest in the managed-care killings. As head of publicity and public relations for the Boston chapter for the past two years, Will had expected to be contacted by the press if not the police, but so far nothing.
An eager OB named Runyon, clearly more interested in what he had to say than in any grisly headlines, captured the conversation.
“So, get this one, Will. Twenty-three-year-old woman develops severe abdominal cramping. It’s the holiday weekend, so she gets called by the HMO on-call doc, who phones in a scrip for indigestion. The office is closed for the weekend, so no arrangements are made for follow-up. She is worse by morning and calls again and
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