The Emergency Room at St. Jude’s usually smells of three things: antiseptic, stale coffee, and varying degrees of panic.
Today, however, at exactly 10:14 AM, a fourth scent enters the mix. It is a wave of Chanel No. 5, aggressive enough to be considered a biological weapon, followed closely by the rhythmicclick-clack-clickof Louboutins on the linoleum.
I am currently at the triage desk, trying to explain to a college student why swallowing a glow stick was a bad idea, even if it was for "the aesthetic."
“It’s not glowinginsideme, is it?” the kid asks, looking down at his stomach.
“No,” I say, rubbing my temples. “But the chemicals are toxic. Don’t vomit on the floor. Aim for the bucket.”
The automatic doors slide open.
Usually, the doors open for paramedics, frantic relatives, or the walking wounded. Today, they open for a woman who lookslike she just stepped out of aVogueeditorial titled "How to Dress for a Hostile Takeover."
She is wearing a pale beige-coloured power suit that costs more than my medical school debt. She has oversized sunglasses on, indoors. And she is clutching a Louis Vuitton carrier against her chest like it contains the Crown Jewels.
She stops at the entrance. She looks at the waiting room—at the crying babies, the guy holding an ice pack to his head, the vending machine.
She shudders. Visibly.
She walks up to the triage nurse, Jenkins (who is currently eating a bagel).
“Excuse me,” the woman says. Her voice isn’t loud, but it carries a frequency that shatters glass. “Where is the concierge line?”
Jenkins blinks, bagel halfway to his mouth. “The what?”
“The concierge. The priority queue. For donors.” She taps a manicured fingernail on the desk. “I do not have time to wait behind people who are… leaking.”
I sigh. I cap my pen. “Stay here,” I tell the glow stick kid.
I step out from behind the desk. As Chief Resident, handling the high-maintenance walk-ins unfortunately falls under my jurisdiction.
“Ma’am,” I say, using my bestcalm-downvoice. “I’m Dr. Silva, the Chief Resident. There is no concierge line. This is an Emergency Room. We triage based on medical urgency, not donation status.”
She turns to me. She lowers her sunglasses. Her eyes are ice blue and terrifyingly sharp.
“Dr. Silva,” she reads my name tag as if it is a typo. “You look… tired. Are you competent?”
I stiffen. “I am very competent. Do you have a medicalemergency?”
“I do,” she says. “It is critical.”
She unzips the Louis Vuitton bag.
A small, trembling Yorkshire Terrier with a diamond-encrusted collar pokes its head out. The dog looks perfectly healthy, if slightly embarrassed.
“This is Duchess,” the woman announces. “She is listless. She refused her organic salmon mousse this morning. I suspect a neurological event.”
I stare at the dog. The dog stares at me. It licks its nose.
“Ma’am,” I say, my voice straining. “This is a hospital for humans.Homo sapiens. We do not treat dogs. There is a veterinary clinic three blocks down on?—”
“The vet is pedestrian,” she snaps. “It smells like wet fur and failure. This is a St. Jude’s medical emergency. My husband is Alistair York. I suggest you find someone who knows how to treat a delicate constitution before I have this entire wing turned into a parking garage.”
My brain stutters.York.
Suddenly, the vintage Porsche in the garage makes sense. The espresso machine makes sense. The bespoke scrubs make sense. This isn't just a rich lady; this is the Mothership.
“Mrs. York,” I say, trying to hold my ground. “I respect your husband’s contributions. But I cannot admit a canine. It is a health code violation. I have a sterile field to maintain.”
