Robin Cook: Host

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Carl said. He turned to look at Frank.

“Shit, man, why are you going to go and say something stupid like that? Be positive! Look, you got to get it done, and you got to get it done now so, come next December, you’re good to go for the next basketball season. We need you healthy.”

Carl didn’t respond. There was a line of cars backed up under the porte cochere. People were getting out with overnight bags. Carl guessed they, too, were arriving for surgery. He wished he could take it all in stride as it appeared others were doing. He glanced at his cell phone. It was now almost five after seven. He had meant to arrive exactly on time so there would be no sitting around.

“I’ll get out here,” Carl said suddenly, opening the passenger-side door as he spoke. He climbed out.

“I’ll have you at the door in thirty seconds,” Frank said.

“I don’t think so. It will be faster if I walk.” Carl slammed the car door and opened the trunk. He lifted the backpack containing his essentials and slung it over his shoulder. “Don’t forget about the cat!”

“No worries,” Frank said as he, too, alighted from the car. He came around and gave Carl a quick hug. Carl didn’t respond, just looked him in the eye when his friend stepped back. But when Frank raised a fist, Carl followed suit. Their knuckles touched in a fist bump. “Later, dude!” Frank added. “You’re going to be fine.”

Carl nodded, turned, and negotiated the small tangle of cars waiting to get closer to the front door to disgorge their passengers. As he entered the hospital he remembered reading Dante’s description of hell in civilization class at Duke.

A pink-smocked volunteer directed him down the hall to surgical admitting. Carl gave his name to one of the clerks seated behind a chest-high counter.

“You’re late,” the woman said with a mildly accusatory tone of voice. She had an uncanny visual resemblance to Carl’s sixth-grade teacher, Miss Gillespie. The association made him feel as if he were going back to an earlier stage in his life when he truly wasn’t in control of his fate. Carl had been an irrepressible twelve-year-old and had clashed with Miss Gillespie. The clerk picked up a packet of paperwork that was on the desk in front of her and handed it to Carl. “Take a seat! A nurse will be with you shortly.”

Although similarly as bossy as the clerk, the nurse was significantly more congenial. She smiled when she asked Carl to follow her back to a curtained-off area where there was a gurney made up with fresh sheets and a pillow. Draped across it was the infamous hospital johnny. After checking his picture ID and asking his name and birth date, she put a name tag on his wrist. Once that was done, she told him to put his valuables in a zippered canvas bag that was also on the gurney, take off his clothes, put on the johnny, and lie down. From the inside, she pulled the curtain around to allow privacy. She watched as Carl picked up the johnny and tried to figure out how it was supposed to be worn.

“The opening should be in the back,” the nurse said, as if that were going to solve Carl’s confusion. “I’ll be back shortly when you are done.” She then disappeared through the curtain. It was apparent she was in a hurry.

Carl did as he was told but had trouble with the johnny, particularly in terms of figuring out how to secure it. One tie was at the neck, the other at the waist, which made no sense. He did the best he could. No sooner had he gotten onto the gurney and pulled the sheet up around his torso than the nurse was outside the curtain, calling to ask if he was finished.

Back inside the curtain, the nurse then went through a litany of questions: Did you eat anything this morning? Do you have any allergies? Do you have any drug intolerance? Do you have any removable dentures? Do you smoke? Have you ever had anesthesia? Have you had any aspirin in the last twenty-four hours? It went on and and on, with Carl dutifully answering no over and over until she queried how he felt.

“What do you mean?” Carl asked. He was taken aback. It was an unexpected question. “I feel nervous. Is that what you are asking?”

The nurse laughed. “No, no, no! I mean do you feel well right now and did you feel normal during the night. What I’m trying to ask is whether or not you feel like you might be coming down with something. Have you had any chills? Do you feel like you have a fever? Anything like that?”

“I get it,” Carl said, feeling embarrassingly naive. “Unfortunately I feel fine health-wise, so there’s no excuse not to go forward with all this. To be honest I’m just anxious.”

The nurse looked up from her tablet, where she had been recording all of Carl’s responses. “How anxious do you feel?”

“How anxious should I feel?”

“Some people find the hospital stressful. We who work here don’t because being here is an everyday event. You tell me, say on a scale of one to ten.”

“Maybe eight! To be honest, I’m really nervous. I don’t like needles or any other medical paraphernalia.”

“Have you ever had a hypotensive episode in a medical setting?”

“You’ll have to translate that into English.”

“Like fainting?”

“I’m afraid so. Twice. Once having my blood drawn for some tests in the college infirmary, and once trying to give blood in college.”

“I’m going to note this in your record. If you’d like, I’m sure they will give you something to calm you down.”

“That would be nice,” Carl said, and he meant it.

The nurse took Carl’s blood pressure and pulse, which she remarked were normal. She then had a conversation with Carl about which knee was to be operated on, and when Carl pointed to his right knee, she made an X with a permanent marker on Carl’s thigh, four inches above his right kneecap. “We want to be sure not to operate on the wrong knee,” she said.

“Me too,” Carl responded with alarm. “Has that ever happened?”

“I’m afraid so,” the nurse said. “Not here, but it has happened.”

Holy fuck , Carl thought. Now he had something else to worry about. As nervous as he felt, he wondered if he had been wrong in discouraging Lynn from coming by to at least say hello before the procedure. Maybe he needed an ombudsman.

Dr. Wykoff, the patient is in the CSPC,” Claire said, coming back into OR 12, referring to the center for surgical patient care, an extra-long name for the patient holding area.

“How about Dr. Weaver?” Sandra responded.

“He’s changing. We’re good to go.”

“Perfect,” Sandra said. She stood and picked up her computer tablet. “How are you doing, Jennifer?” Jennifer Donovan was the scrub nurse, who was already gowned, gloved, and setting out the sterilized instruments. It was 7:21 A.M.

“I’ll be ready,” Jennifer said.

As Sandra walked back down the central corridor, she checked Carl’s EMR and noticed the admitting nurse’s entries. There were no red flags for trouble. The only thing she picked up on was that the patient was unusually anxious and had a history of several hypotensive episodes in the past associated with drawing blood. In Sandra’s experience she’d come across a number of men with such a phobia, but it had never been a problem. People rarely fainted when lying down. As far as she was concerned, anxiety was par for the course. That’s why she liked midazolam, or Versed, so much. It worked like a charm, relaxing even the most skittish patients. In the pocket of her scrubs she had a syringe with the proper dose, according to Carl’s weight.

She found Carl Vandermeer in one of the pre-op bays of the CSPC. She couldn’t help but notice that he was a handsome man with dark, thick hair and startlingly wide-open blue eyes. Except for his apparent anxiety, he was the picture of health. The thought went through her mind that working with him was going to be a pleasure.