Richard Mabry - Lethal Remedy

Dr. John Ramsey found a spot in the visitors' parking lot. He exited his car and looked across the driveway at the main campus of Southwestern Medical Center. When he'd graduated, there were two buildings on the campus. Now those two had been swallowed up, incorporated into a complex that totaled about forty buildings on three separate campuses. Right now he only needed to find one: the tall white building directly across the driveway at the end of a flagstone plaza. The imposing glass facade of the medical library reflected sunlight into his eyes as he wove past benches where students sat chatting on cell phones or burrowing into book bags. He paused at the glass front doors of the complex, took a deep breath, and pushed forward. There was a directory inside for anyone trying to negotiate the warren of inter-connected buildings, but John didn't need it. He found the elevator he wanted, entered, and punched five.

In a moment, he was in the office of the Chairman of Internal Medicine. "Dr. Schaeffer will be with you in a moment." The receptionist motioned him toward a seat opposite the magnificent rosewood desk that was the centerpiece of the spacious office, then glided out, closing the door softly behind her. John eased into the visitor's chair and looked around him. He'd spent forty years on the volunteer clinical faculty of Southwestern Medical Center's Department of Internal Medicine. For forty years he'd instructed and mentored medical students and residents, for forty years he'd covered the teaching clinic once a month, and today was the first time he'd been in the department chairman's office. He swallowed the resentment he felt bubbling up. No, John. You never wanted to be here. You were happy in your own world. John couldn't help comparing this room with the cubbyhole he'd called his private office. Now he didn't even have that. The practice was closed, the equipment and furnishings sold to a young doctor just getting started. John's files and patient records were in a locked storage facility, rent paid for a year. He wondered how many of his patients had contacted his nurse to have their records transferred. No matter, she'd handle it. He'd paid her six months' salary to take care of such things. What would happen after that? He didn't have the energy to care. Things were different now. For almost half a century he'd awakened to the aroma of coffee and a kiss from the most wonderful woman in the world. Now getting out of bed in the morning was an effort; shaving and getting dressed were more than he could manage some days. Since Beth died… He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs that clogged his brain. The knowledge that he'd never again know the happiness of having a woman he loved by his side made him wish he'd died with her. What was the use of going on?

But something happened this morning. He'd awakened with a small spark of determination to do something, anything, to move on. He tried to fight it, to roll over and seek the sleep that eluded him. Instead, he heard the echo of Beth's words: "You're too good a physician to retire. People need you." He remembered that conversation as though it were yesterday. She'd urged; he'd insisted. Let's retire. I want to get out of the rat race and enjoy time with you. Retirement meant the travel they'd put off, the time to do things together. Only, now there was no more together. This morning, he'd rolled out of bed determined that today would be different. It would be the start of his rebirth.

As he shrugged into a robe, as he'd done each day since her death he looked at the picture on their dresser of him and Beth. She'd been radiant that spring day so many years ago, and he wondered yet again how he'd managed to snag her. He'd shaved-for the first time in days-with special care, and his image in the mirror made him wonder.

When did that slim young man in the picture develop a paunch and acquire an AARP card? When had the thick brown hair been replaced by gray strands that required careful combing to hide a retreating hairline? The eyes were still bright, although they hid behind wire-rimmed trifocals. "You're too old for this, John," he muttered.

And as though she were in the room, he heard Beth's words once more.

"You're too good a physician to retire. People need you." Fortified with coffee, the sole component of his breakfast nowadays, he'd forced himself to make the call. He asked his question and was gratified and a bit frightened by the positive response. John dressed carefully, choosing his best suit, spending a great deal of time selecting a tie.

He'd noticed a gradual shift in doctors' attire over the past few years. Now many wore jeans and golf shirts under their white coats.

But for John Ramsey, putting on a tie before going to the office was tantamount to donning a uniform, one he'd worn proudly for years. And he- "John, I was surprised when I got your call. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Dr. Donald Schaeffer breezed into the office, the starched tails of his white coat billowing behind him. He offered his hand, then settled in behind his desk. "Donald, I appreciate your taking the time to see me. I was wondering-" "Before we start, I want you to know how sorry we all are for your loss. Is there anything I can do?"

Perfect lead-in. See if you can get the words out. "As you know, I closed my office four months ago. Beth and I were going to enjoy retirement. Then…" Schaeffer nodded and tented his fingers under his chin. At least he had the grace not to offer more platitudes.

Ramsey had had enough of those. "I was wondering if you could use me in the department." There. Not the words he'd rehearsed, but at least he'd tossed the ball into Schaeffer's court. "John, are you talking about coming onto the faculty?" "Maybe something half-time. I could staffresident clinics, teach medical students." Schaeffer was shaking his head before John finished. "That's what the volunteer clinical faculty does. It's what you did for… how many years? Thirty?

Thirty-five?" "Forty, actually. Well, I'm still a clinical professor in the department, so I guess I have privileges at Parkland Hospital.

Can you use me there?" Schaeffer pulled a yellow legal pad toward him and wrote a couple of words before he pushed it aside. "I'm not sure what I can do for you, if anything. It's not that easy. You have no idea of the administrative hoops I have to jump through to run this department. Even if I could offer you a job today- and I can't-I'd have to juggle the budget to support it, post the position for open applications, get half a dozen approvals before finalizing the appointment." He spread his hands in a gesture of futility. "So, is that a 'no'?" "That's an 'I'll see what I can do.' Afraid that's the best I have to offer." Schaeffer looked at his watch, shoved his chair back, and eased to his feet. "Coming to Grand Rounds?" Why not? John's house was an empty museum of bitter memories. His office belonged to someone else. Why not sit in the company of colleagues? "Sure. I'll walk over with you." As the two men moved through the halls of the medical center, John prayed silently that Schaeffer would find a job for him. With all his prayers for Beth during her final illness, prayers that had gone unanswered, he figured that surely God owed him this one.

Jack, this is Sara." Dr. Jack Ingersoll hunched his shoulder to hold the phone against his ear. He removed his glasses and polished them on the tail of his white coat. The closed door of his academic office couldn't quite block out the noise as one of his fellow faculty members read the riot act to a resident about his choice of a drug for bacterial endocarditis. "Sara, so good to hear from you. How have you been?" "You can skip the niceties, Jack. This is a professional call."

"I get the picture. So let's keep it professional. What can I do for you?" "I have a sixteen-year-old girl with generalized sepsis. No response to the usual empiric IV antibiotics. I got the blood culture results this morning. Staphylococcus luciferus." Ingersoll pursed his lips. "Another case. And, of course, the sensitivity studies-"