“Well, we are going to do everything we can to keep that from happening.” I tried to sound as reassuring as possible without making any promises.
Her forehead wrinkled with confusion. “They told me there was nothing else they could do. Did the surgeon change his mind?”
My head whirled with the information. The surgeon refused to operate? That wasn’t what my orders said. What was going on with this patient? Where was all this disconnect coming from? I’d gotten the info I needed from Mrs. McNabb, and for her husband’s sake, I needed to spring into action and figure this out.
“Sit right here, ma’am, and let me double-check his orders to make sure I give you the right information.” I barely held backthere’s still a lot we can do to help him. I was a nurse, not the doctor, which meant that I was lower on the totem pole than the surgeon—their word was law around here. But I couldn’t sit back and let this man die if there was a clerical error or other mistake. I needed to get to the bottom of this—now!
I sprinted to the phone, punched the stiff numbers of the keypad, and called down to the cath lab. “Hey, Nancy, did something change with room number 17’s orders? Why is he here and not in surgery?”
“Yeah, somethin’ happened. Dr. Alexander Mitchell happened—that’s what.” Her contemptuous tone told me as much about the situation as her actual words.
My rage exploded.
Dr. Alexander Mitchell was the new cardiothoracic surgeon. He’d only been working at Northwest Memorial Hospital for a few months, but I already dreaded seeing his name on my patients’ records. Technically speaking, his surgical skills were excellent, but his bedside manner and interpersonal skills left much to be desired, and I was often left trying to make up the deficit.
I would never say this to a patient, and I’d only ever said it once out loud to Becca, but that doctor treated people like they were made up of numbers instead of flesh and bone, feelings and emotions, futures and families.
I’d been patient and bitten my tongue several times over the last few months. But this was the final straw. I was done seeing Dr. Mitchell play God. Mr. McNabb was a young man with a lot of life ahead of him. Experience told me that he should be in surgery. I knew darn well there were plenty of other surgeons here who would be willing to take the case. The problem was, none of them were available right now.
Tick, tick, tickwent the clock.
I needed someone above my paygrade to help get Dr. Mitchell to do Mr. McNabb’s surgery. Determined to see this through, no matter the personal consequences, I picked up the phone and called the hospital ethics committee to lodge an emergent complaint. It was a drastic move, one that would have repercussions for Dr. Mitchell, and it was not something to do on a whim. I wasn’t feeling whimsical at the moment; I was angry—and yes, slightly panicked—that Mr. McNabb would die in room 17.
I glanced over to see Ben mopping up outside of the elevator. He smiled and waved, and I gave him a curt nod in return. He’d brought in cookies last week, and I desperately wanted to thank him, but I had to get this taken care of.
I hung up the phone and went back to Mrs. McNabb, gave her a rundown of the situation, and had her call to lodge the same complaint. I didn’t leave her side as we waited to hear what the committee decided.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
It took thirty-seven minutes, but a new orderly arrived and wheeled Mr. McNabb off to pre-op. Mrs. McNabb hugged me tight before going up to the OR waiting room. “Thank you so much. I don’t know what we would have done without you.” Hope had replaced the despair in her eyes. I’d explained the risks, but just having the chance to fight for life had lifted her hopes. At least she knew we were doing everything we could.
I hugged her back. “We’ll see you in a while.” I hoped. Mr. McNabb might not make it through surgery, but at least my prayers had a shot of being answered.
I just hoped we’d been fast enough that there would be enough heart tissue left to save.
I waved as the elevator doors slid shut on the image of Mrs. McNabb pulling out a fresh tissue. She still had a long day ahead of her. With the soft ding that signaled the elevator was on the move, thetickingstopped and a feeling of the inevitable stole over me.
I’d started a war with Dr. Mitchell.
I’d pushed the thought out of my head while I’d been helping Mrs. McNabb, but I couldn’t help but think everything was going to blow up in my face at some point. Dr. Mitchell wasn’t the type who liked to be questioned, let alone called out on a decision. But for my patient’s sake, I’d fight for a win.
There was no backing out now.
Chapter Two
Alex
Istripped out of my surgical gear, throwing my mask into the trash can, where it would go off to be burned. I glared after it, willing it to burst into flame right there and give me a little bit of satisfaction over the situation with the ethics committee.
I’d finished the surgery for Mr. McNabb—a surgery I’d never wanted to do in the first place but had been bullied into. There’d been just enough tissue to do the surgery, and I’d done my best, but it would be a surprise if the man lived through the night, let alone ever left the hospital.
It wasn’t fair to him or his family to give them false hope, and I felt like a liar.
The ethics committee had issued the order that I get into the OR—or else. I had a scheduled meeting with them stat. The way they pushed me left a bad taste in my mouth.
Rooms painted in soft greens and blues, meant to be calming for patients, blurred past, having no effect on me.Fuming, I made my way to the elevator, feeling like I was facing a firing squad for a crime I hadn’t committed.
The thing was, this wasn’t the first time I had been before the ethics committee since moving to Chicago, and it grated. In New York, where I had done my training, I hadn’t had this much difficulty. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand where these complaints were coming from. I treated my patients like I would want to be treated: with honesty, not some false sense of security, hope, or fantasy. Just hand me reality and let me deal with it. Sure, I wasn’t the most warm and fuzzy doctor, but that was why I was a surgeon—most of the time, my patients were asleep. My skills and procedure outcomes were above reproach. So what if placating people wasn’t my strong point? That didn’t mean I wasn’t good at my job.
