Robin Cook - Fever

Picking up yet another magazine, Cathryn glanced at the advertisements; there were smiling, happy people, shining floors, buying new cars. She tried to decide what to fix for dinner but never completed the thought. Why was Michelle taking so long? Two more mothers arrived with pink swathed parcels that were obviously babies. Then came another mother and child: a small boy about two with a huge violaceous rash that covered half his face.

The waiting room was now packed and Cathryn began to have trouble breathing. Getting up to make room for the second mother carrying her infant, Cathryn tried to avoid seeing the two-year-old with the horribly disfiguring rash. Her fears mounted. It had been over an hour and twenty minutes since she’d left Michelle. She realized she was trembling.

Once again she approached the nurse and self-consciously stood before her desk until the woman acknowledged her presence.

“Can I help you?” she said in a painfully courteous manner. Cathryn wanted to reach over and shake this woman whose starched whiteness inflamed Cathryn’s precarious emotions. She didn’t need politeness, she needed warmth and understanding, an ounce of sensitivity.

“Do you think it could be possible,” asked Cathryn, “to find out what’s taking so long?”

Before the receptionist could respond, the door to her left opened and Dr. Wiley leaned into the room. He searched the waiting area until his eyes found Cathryn. “Mrs. Martel, can I speak to you for a moment?” His voice was noncommittal and he turned back inside, leaving the door ajar.

Cathryn hurried after him, nervously touching the flowered combs in her hair to be sure they were in place, and closed the door behind her carefully. Wiley had retreated to his desk but had not sat down in the chair. Instead he was half-sitting on the front edge, his arms folded across his chest.

Exquisitely sensitive to every nuance, Cathryn scrutinized Dr. Wiley’s broad face. His forehead was deeply lined, something Cathryn hadn’t noticed on her first encounter. The man didn’t smile.

“We need your permission for a test,” said Dr. Wiley.

“Is everything all right?” asked Cathryn. She tried to sound normal but her voice was too high.

“Everything is under control,” said Dr. Wiley. Unfolding his arms, he reached out for a paper on his desk. “But we need to do a specific diagnostic test. I’m going to need your signature on this form.” He handed the paper to Cathryn. She took it, her hand quivering.

“Where is Michelle?” Cathryn’s eyes scanned the form. It was written in standard medicalese.

“She’s in one of the examining rooms. You can see her if you’d like although I’d rather go ahead with this test before you do. It’s called a bone marrow aspiration.”

“Bone marrow?” Cathryn’s head shot up. The words evoked the awesome image of Tad Schonhauser in his plastic tent.

“It’s nothing to be alarmed about,” said Dr. Wiley, noticing Cathryn’s shocked response. “It’s a simple test, very similar to taking a sample of blood.”

“Does Michelle have aplastic anemia?” blurted Cathryn.

“Absolutely not.” Dr. Wiley was perplexed at her response. “We want to do the test in order to try to make a diagnosis, but I can assure you Michelle does not have aplastic anemia. If you don’t mind my asking, what made you ask that?”

“Just a few minutes ago I visited our neighbor’s child who has aplastic anemia. When you said bone marrow, it…” Cathryn struggled to complete her own sentence.

“I understand,” said Dr. Wiley. “Don’t worry. I can assure you that aplastic anemia is not a possibility here. But we still want to do the test… just to be complete.”

“Do you think I should call Charles?” asked Cathryn. She was relieved that Michelle couldn’t have aplastic anemia and grateful to Dr. Wiley for eliminating it as a possibility. Although Charles had said aplastic anemia wasn’t infectious, its proximity was frightening.

“If you’d like to call Charles, by all means. But let me explain a little. Bone marrow aspiration is done with a needle similar to the one we use for drawing blood. We use a little local anesthesia so it’s practically painless, and it only takes a few moments. And once we have the results we’ll be done. It’s truly a simple procedure, and we do it often.”

Cathryn managed a smile and said they could go ahead with the test. She liked Dr. Wiley, and she felt a visceral confidence in the man, especially since Charles had undoubtedly picked him from a group of pediatricians he knew well, back when Chuck had been born. She signed the forms where Dr. Wiley pointed, then allowed herself to be escorted out of the office and back into the crowded waiting room.

Michelle lay very still on the examining table. Even with her head propped up on the pillow her view was mostly ceiling with frosted glass over fluorescent lighting. But she could see a little wallpaper, enough to make out images of laughing clowns, rocking horses, and children with balloons. There was a sink in the room, and although she couldn’t see it from where she was, she could hear the water dripping.

For Michelle the hospital had lived up to her fears. She’d been stuck with needles three times. Once in each arm and once in a finger. Each time she’d asked if it was the last but no one would say, so she was afraid it might happen again, especially if she moved too much, so she stayed very still.

She felt embarrassed to be dressed so scantily. She had on a nightie of sorts, but it was open in the back, and she could feel her skin on the paper which covered the table. By looking down, she could see the mounds made by her toes beneath the white sheet that covered her. Even her hands were under the cover, clasped together over her stomach. She’d been shivering a little but didn’t tell anyone. All she wanted was her clothes and to go home. Yet she knew the fever was back and she was afraid someone might notice and then want to stick her again. They had told her that the reason they needed her blood was to find out why she kept getting the fever.

There was a scraping sound, and the door to the examining room opened. It was the fat nurse, and she was backing into the room so that her form filled the doorway. She was pulling something, and Michelle heard the telltale sound of metal jangling against metal. Once clear of the door, the nurse swung around, pushing a small table on wheels. The table was covered with a blue towel. As far as Michelle was concerned, it didn’t look good.

“What’s that?” she asked anxiously.

“Some things for the doctor, sweetheart,” said Miss Hammersmith, as if she were talking about treats. Her name tag was pinned high on her shoulder like a battle ribbon, above the band of her bosom which went around her chest like an innertube. There seemed to be as much flesh in the back as the front.

“Is it going to hurt?” asked Michelle.

“Sweetheart, why do you ask that kind of question? We’re trying to help you.” Miss Hammersmith sounded offended.

“Everything the doctor does hurts,” said Michelle.

“Now that’s hardly true,” scoffed Miss Hammersmith.

“Ah, my favorite patient,” said Dr. Wiley, opening the door with his shoulder. Coming into the room he kept his hands away from his body because they were wet and dripping onto the floor. Miss Hammersmith broke open a paper package, and Dr. Wiley carefully pulled out a sterile towel with his thumb and forefinger. Most alarming to Michelle, he was wearing a surgical mask.

“What are you going to do?” she asked, her eyes opened to their physical limits. She forgot her resolve about staying still and pushed herself up on one elbow.

“Well, I’m afraid I’ve got good and bad news,” said Dr. Wiley. “I’m afraid you have to have one more little needle stick but the good news is that it will be the last for a while. What do you say?”