Miracles in the ER (24 page)

Morgan began pacing in front of the nurses’ station, mumbling something I couldn’t understand.

He walked over to the ambulance entrance and stopped before stepping onto the mat that opened the automatic door. He turned to his right, reached out, and grabbed the fire extinguisher.

Amy ducked, and Virginia Granger called out, “Dr. Morgan!”

Too late. He tore the red cylinder off the wall and with surprising ease, slung it down the ER hallway. Fortunately, no one was struck. But the discharge mechanism was somehow activated and a white cloud spread through the department.

Virginia stared at the billowing mess. Her jaw hardened, and with narrowed eyes she turned and stalked toward the miscreant neurosurgeon.

He was gone—he’d disappeared through the ambulance entrance and into the night.

“So, who’s gonna go help him?” Amy tilted her head in the direction of major trauma. The door was still closed, and no one was rushing to open it.

“What’s he got in there? I didn’t call him for anything.”

“I think it’s a dressing change on one of his rehab patients.” She paused and searched her desk for the clipboard of major trauma. “I think the guy
was in the hospital and Dr. Morgan brought him down here. Didn’t call or anything. You know how he is.”

We
all
knew how he was. I needed to go check on Angie Davis and, as much as I didn’t want to, I would stick my head in trauma on the way.

“I’ll go help him.”

Amy and I jerked around as Margie Suttles walked up to the counter.

“I’ll go help Dr. Morgan,” she repeated.

Amy’s eyes were wide. “Are you sure, Margie? That’s Dr. Morgan.
The
Dr. Morgan.”

“I know who he is.” Her voice was calm, quiet. “I’ll go help him.”

Margie was a new graduate nurse and had only been in the department for a few months. She was still technically “orienting” and hadn’t yet been given a solo assignment. She was young, composed, soft-spoken, and assured. And we were about to send her into the very teeth of the dragon.

“Margie, I—”

“I can handle this, Dr. Lesslie.”

Margie walked around the nurses’ station and over to the door of major trauma. She hesitated, but only for an instant. The door gave way to her push, then closed behind her.

Before I could say a word, Amy reached down, flipped on the intercom for major trauma, and held an index finger to her lips. I leaned as far over the counter as I could and listened.

“I said I needed some
competent
help.” Morgan’s voice was still belligerent but not as loud. “And just who are
you,
young lady? Obviously no one possessing any competence.”

“I’m Margie Suttles, one of the nurses on the ER staff. And I’m here to—”

“Don’t waste your time. You can—”

“Dr. Morgan, stop right there.”

Amy and I stared at each other, our mouths open.

“I am perfectly capable of helping you with this patient.” Her words were calm, measured. “And I think I need to tell you what my grandmother has often told me. ‘You’ll catch a lot more flies with honey than with vinegar.’ ”

Amy shook her head and drew her hand across her neck, knifelike.

We waited for the explosion.

“What are you trying to say, young lady?”

This was no explosion. The tone of Morgan’s voice was one of surprise. He sounded like he might really want the answer to this question.

“It’s just that we’re all trying to do the same thing—take care of our patients. And when we’re all a little nicer, things go better.”

A foreboding silence.

We braced ourselves for the clang of flying metal pans.

Instead, there was a quiet “hmm.” Then, “Ms. Suttles, let me show you how we need to do this.”

Amy flipped off the intercom and we looked at each other, speechless.

A few minutes later, the door of major trauma opened. Dr. Edward Morgan stepped into the hallway, cleared his throat, and turned in our direction. He hitched up his pants, cocked his head, and uttered a faint “hmm.”

There was no smile on his face. But there wasn’t a scowl, either. Then he was gone.

Margie stepped through the doorway, a bundle of bandages in her hands. We were staring at her with wide eyes and slack jaws.

She glanced over at us and halted in the hallway. She looked from Amy to me then back to Amy. Finally she shrugged.

“What?”

The Dragon Slayer, and she didn’t even know it.

Coming Home to Roost

“Dr. Lesslie, let me tell you how this is going to work.”

Bill Corley stood in front of me, his thick-rimmed glasses riding low on his long, bulbous nose. His arms were folded across his chest, just below some intricate embroidery:

Dr. William Corley, MD

Specialist in Internal Medicine

The ER was hopping, and I had taken a few precious moments to meet Rich Aberman’s new partner.

Corley stared at me, and when I didn’t say anything, he repeated himself. “Let me tell you how this is going to work.”

I glanced over at Rich and raised my eyebrows. He quickly lowered his head and looked away. I was on my own.

“Okay, Bill, exactly what do you mean?”

“It’s
Dr. Corley
.” He stiffened and his right foot started to tap. “I expect to be addressed as that when I receive calls from the emergency department.”

Rich cleared his throat and raised a hesitant hand to his chin.

“Fine.” I nodded and reached for a chart on the countertop. We were standing in front of the nurses’ station, and I suspected that Amy Connors was enjoying all of this.

“I’ll be sure to tell—”

“Once again,” Corley interrupted. “Let me tell you how this is going to work. I’ve spent a lot of time in various ERs and I understand how you and your staff
dump
on other physicians. Well, let me make it perfectly clear—you will
not
dump on me. Do I need to repeat myself?”

Rich looked up and in a quiet voice said, “Bill, I think that once you get to know—”

Corley’s eyes continued to bore into mine. “Is that clear?”

I tossed the chart in my hand onto the counter. The clipboard clattered loudly a few times before coming to rest in front of Amy. She glanced up at me with eyebrows raised. Her elbows found the desktop and she cradled her head in her hands, her eyes moving from me to Corley, and back to me.

“Bill…
Dr.
Corley. Rich tells me that you’ve been in the military since finishing medical school. I’m sure you are well-trained, but your military emergency departments must work a little differently than all the others in the country. It’s not the
medical
staff of a hospital that gets ‘dumped on,’ as you put it. It’s those of us in the ER. We’re the last line, the bottom of the rung. When you’re tired or in bed,
we’re
the ones you send your patients to. And we’re glad to see them. All we ask is that you respond when we ask for your help.
That’s
how things work around here.”

My face was flushed and my heart was hammering in my chest. I had said enough.

“Bill.” Rich stepped forward a little, almost between Corley and me. “Dr. Lesslie and his team are great to work with. You’ll see. I just wanted you to meet him and—”

“We’ll see,” Corley fumed. “But understand me—I will
not
be dumped on.”

He spun around and stomped down the hallway. Rich shrugged, gave me a feeble smile, and hurried after his younger partner.

I stood there shaking my head, trying to calm down.

“Looks like
you’ve
made a friend.” Amy snickered and slid the abused chart across the counter. “Boy, Dr. Aberman is such a nice guy, and all his patients love him. Why in the world would he bring on somebody like Genghis Khan—what’s his name? Bill Ketchup?”

“Bill Corley,” I mumbled. “And I don’t know why. Maybe Rich sees something in this man that isn’t readily apparent. Maybe he’s great with his patients but has trouble interacting with…us…” I paused, struggling to find the right word.

“Us
lowlifes
?” Amy chuckled and pushed her chair back. “You really think someone who acts like that is good to his patients?”

He wasn’t. Dr. William Corley quickly made a name for himself with the entire staff of the emergency department. When called about one of his patients, he was rude, blunt, sometimes abusive. And when he reluctantly arrived in the ER, his displeasure was plainly engraved on his face and in his eyes.

“He’s not a very happy person,” Virginia Granger had profoundly pronounced one morning. “Some people just carry a dark cloud with them. Some of them—maybe Dr. Corley included—seem to enjoy it.”

Mattie Caufman was the next to find herself in Corley’s dark and cloudy shadow. Her daughter, Brenda Mayes, had brought the ninety-two-year-old Mattie to the ER one Sunday morning because of cough, fever, and shortness of breath.

I pulled the curtain of room 5 to one side and stepped over to the stretcher.

“Mattie, what have you been up to
this
time?” We had seen this cheerful, animated nonagenarian several times in the ER, usually with minor problems—a sprained wrist suffered while playing tetherball with a great-granddaughter, a hand burned while baking Christmas cookies, and most recently a cut finger from slicing onions for a family picnic.

It wasn’t minor this time. Mattie was sick.

She managed a weak smile and a weaker wave of her slender hand.

“Not so good this morning, Dr. Lesslie. I think I may have pneumonia.” Her voice was faint and her respirations labored.

“Let’s just find out about that.” I looked again at her clipboard.

Temp—103.2

Respirations—20

HR—108

BP—92/60

Brenda got up from the chair in the corner of the room and walked over beside me. “Momma started to get sick yesterday. She didn’t want to come to the ER—didn’t want to be a nuisance—but when she was too short of breath to walk to the kitchen, she decided it was time.”

Mattie shook her head. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

“Mattie, you’re never a burden,” I told her. “That’s why we’re here—to get you back on that tetherball court with your granddaughter.”

“
Great-
granddaughter,” she corrected me. “And I’ve had to give that up, after the wrist injury and all.”

Her blood work came back with a sky-high white count and low sodium—both red flags for real problems. She was right about the pneumonia. Her X-ray showed a completely socked-in right-lower lobe. She was going to be in the hospital for several days, probably starting off in the ICU.

“Amy, who’s on call for Dr. Aberman?” His name had been written on Mattie’s chart under “Family MD.”

“You don’t want to know.” Amy frowned, shook her head, and punched some numbers on her phone.

“You’re kidding? Corley?”

“That’s right.” She handed me the receiver. “Genghis himself.”

I took the phone, placed it to my ear, and waited.