Робин Кук - Vital Signs

“Mrs. Ziegler,” said the startled receptionist. “Please!” The receptionist was cowering behind her desk chair.

“Don’t Mrs. Ziegler me,” the woman shouted. “This is the third time I’ve come in here for my records. I want them now!”

Mrs. Ziegler’s hand shot out and swept the top of the receptionist’s desk clean. There was the jolting shatter of glass and pottery as pens, papers, picture frames, and coffee mugs crashed to the floor.

The dozen or so patients waiting in the room froze in their chairs, stunned by the outburst. Most trained their eyes on the magazines before them, afraid to acknowledge the scene being acted out before their eyes.

Marissa winced at the sound of the breaking glass. She remembered the clock radio she had so wanted to smash not half an hour earlier. It was frightening to recognize in Mrs. Ziegler such a kindred spirit. There had been several times Marissa had felt equally pushed to the edge.

Robert’s initial response to the situation was to step directly in front of Marissa and put himself between her and the hysterical patient. When he saw Mrs. Ziegler make a move around the desk, he feared she was about to attack the poor receptionist. In a flash, he shot forward and caught Mrs. Ziegler from behind, gripping her at the waist. “Calm down,” he told her, hoping to sound commanding as well as soothing.

As if expecting such interference, Mrs. Ziegler twisted around and swung her sizable Gucci purse in a wide arc. It hit Robert on the side of his face, splitting his lip. Since the blow did not dislodge Robert’s grip, Mrs. Ziegler cocked her arm for yet another swing of the purse.

Seeing the second blow in the making, Robert let go of her waist and smothered her arms in a bear hug. But before he could get a good grip, she hit him again, this time with a clenched fist.

“Ahhhh!” Robert cried, surprised by the blow. He pushed Mrs. Ziegler away. The women who had been sitting in the area fled to the other side of the waiting room.

Massaging his shoulder, which had received the punch, Robert eyed Mrs. Ziegler cautiously.

“Get out of my way,” she snarled. “This doesn’t involve you.”

“It does now,” Robert snapped.

The door to the hall burst open as Dr. Carpenter and Dr. Wingate dashed in. Behind them was a uniformed guard with a Women’s Clinic patch on his sleeve. All three went directly to Mrs. Ziegler.

Dr. Wingate, director of the clinic as well as head of the in-vitro unit, took immediate control. He was a huge man with a full beard and a slight but distinctive English accent. “Rebecca, what on earth has gotten into you?” he asked in a soothing voice. “No matter how upset you might be feeling, this is no way to behave.”

“I want my records,” Mrs. Ziegler said. “Every time I come in here I get the runaround. There is something wrong in this place, something rotten. I want my records. They are mine.”

“No, they are not,” Dr. Wingate corrected calmly. “They are the Women’s Clinic records. We know that infertility treatment can be stressful, and we even know that on occasion patients displace their frustration on the doctors and the technicians who are trying to help them. We can understand if you are unhappy. We’ve even told you that if you want to go elsewhere, we will be happy to forward your records to your new physician. That’s our policy. If your new physician wants to give you the records, that’s his decision. The sanctity of our records has always been one of our prized attributes.”

“I’m a lawyer and I know my rights,” Mrs. Ziegler said, but her confidence seemed to falter.

“Even lawyers can occasionally be mistaken,” Dr. Wingate said with a smile. Dr. Carpenter nodded in agreement. “You are welcome to view your records. Why don’t you come with me and we’ll let you read over the whole thing. Maybe that will make you feel better.”

“Why wasn’t that opportunity offered to me originally?” Mrs. Ziegler said as tears began to stream down her face. “The first time I came here about my records, I told the receptionist I had serious questions about my condition. There was never any suggestion I would be allowed to read my records.”

“It was an oversight,” Dr. Wingate said. “I apologize for my staff if such an alternative wasn’t discussed. We’ll send around a memo to avoid future problems. Meanwhile, Dr. Carpenter will take you upstairs and let you read everything. Please.” He held out his hand.

Covering her eyes, Mrs. Ziegler allowed herself to be led from the room by Dr. Carpenter and the guard. Dr. Wingate turned to the people in the room. “The clinic would like to apologize for this little incident,” he said as he straightened his long white coat. A stethoscope was tucked into a pocket, several glass petri dishes in another. Turning to the receptionist, he asked her to please call housekeeping to clean up the mess on the floor.

Dr. Wingate walked over to Robert, who’d taken the handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit to dab at his split lip.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Dr. Wingate said as he eyed Robert’s wound. It was still bleeding, although it had slowed considerably. “I think you’d better come over to our emergency facility,” Dr. Wingate said.

“I’m okay,” Robert said. He rubbed his shoulder. “It’s not too bad.”

Marissa stepped over for a closer look at his lip. “I think you’d better have it looked at,” she said.

“You might even need a stitch. A butterfly, maybe,” Dr. Wingate said as he tipped Robert’s head back to get a better view of his lip. “Come on, I’ll take you.”

“I don’t believe this,” Robert said with disgust, looking at the bloodstains on his handkerchief.

“It won’t take long,” Marissa urged. “I’ll sign in and wait here.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Robert allowed himself to be led from the room.

Marissa watched the door close behind him. She could hardly blame Robert if this morning’s episode added to his reluctance to proceed with the infertility treatment.

Marissa was suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of doubt about her fourth attempt at in-vitro fertilization. Why should she dare hope to do any better this time around? A feeling of utter futility was beginning to bear down on her.

Sighing heavily, Marissa fought back new tears. Looking around the waiting room, she saw that the other patients had calmly retreated to the pages of their magazines. For some reason, Marissa just couldn’t force herself back in step. Instead of approaching the receptionist to check in, she went over to an empty seat and practically fell into it. What was the use of undergoing the egg retrieval yet again if the failure was so certain?

Marissa let her head sink into her hands. She couldn’t remember ever feeling such overwhelming despair except when she’d been depressed at the end of her pediatric residency. That was when Roger Shulman had broken off their long-term relationship, an event that ultimately led her to the Centers for Disease Control.

Marissa’s mood sank lower as she remembered Roger. In late spring their relationship had still been going strong, but then out of the blue he had informed her he was going to UCLA for a fellowship in neurosurgery. He wanted to go alone. At the time she’d been shocked. Now she knew he was better off without her, barren as she was. She tried to shake the thought. This was crazy thinking, she told herself.

Marissa’s thoughts drifted back a year and a half, back to the time she and Robert decided to start their family. She could remember it well because they had celebrated their decision with a special weekend trip to Nantucket Island and a giddy toast with a good Cabernet Sauvignon.

Back then they both thought conceiving would take a matter of weeks, at the most a couple of months. Having always guarded so carefully against the possibility of becoming pregnant, it never occurred to her that conceiving might be a problem for her. But after about seven months, Marissa had begun to become concerned. The approach of her period became a time of building anxiety, followed by depression upon its arrival. By ten months she and Robert realized that something was wrong. By a year they’d made the difficult decision to do something about it. That’s when they’d gone to the Women’s Clinic to be seen and evaluated in the infertility department.