What was it that nurse had said: something about a patient in trouble. Something she had said had struck a chord in him. The room number, that was it. Twenty-two something—what was it? Oh, 2214. Yes, that was it.
Fortunately, he had his patient chart at his side. Number 2214 . . . who was in that room? Alva Crawford and Millie Power. He remembered them now. Alva had been his wild-goose chase. The lady who might have wanted to go to confession if she had been a Catholic. And the other one, Millie Power, had, as he recalled, pneumonia. She was the one who claimed Dr. Jesus as her physician.
Koesler wondered which of the ladies was in trouble: Millie, who had seemed to be recovering nicely from a bout with pneumonia; or Alva, who probably had had her operation during which she would have to swallow a dreaded tube. On the face of it, Koesler guessed the crisis patient must be Alva.
He was wrong, as he discovered upon entering Room 2214. There was a great deal of activity going on around Millie Power’s bed, while Alva Crawford intently watched her small-screen TV. Evidently, Alva considered this problem to be none of her business and she was not about to get involved.
Nevertheless, Koesler approached Alva’s bedside. Actually, if he were going to move at all in that small room, the only direction open to him was toward Alva’s bed. Reluctantly, she took her eyes from the television and glanced at him briefly.
“What happened, Alva?” Koesler asked softly. He did not wish to disturb the consultation that was being stage-whispered around Millie’s bed.
“She got sick.” Alva nodded toward Millie.
“Do you know what’s wrong?”
Alva shook her head. “I guess they don’t either.”
“Oh.”
Alva returned her attention to soap-opera time. Koesler remained standing near the head of her bed. It was the only place in the room whence he could have a clear vision of Millie.
She certainly looked gravely ill. She appeared to be unconscious. At least her eyes were closed as her head moved slowly from side to side on the firm white pillow. Then Koesler noticed her hands. They were restless, moving up and down her arms, seeming to scratch endlessly. He could hear only snatches of the conversation going on around her bedside.
“Did you change her medication in any way?” The speaker appeared to be a doctor. The telltale stethoscope. But more than that, the imperious attitude one occasionally finds in a doctor. He was angry. Obviously, his patient was not doing well and it was up to him to discover the reason.
“No, Dr. Wilson,” said the brunette that Koesler had noticed earlier in the cafeteria.
“I don’t understand it,” Wilson whispered. “I don’t understand it at all. Her blood pressure has dropped out the bottom. I don’t understand. There’s no reason for this to be happening.”
No one responded. Perhaps, Koesler thought, no one else could understand it either. At least none of them offered any possible solution. Wilson whispered something to the others. It sounded like he was giving instructions . But Koesler could barely hear the doctor, and the little he could make out was, to him, unintelligible medicalese. When Wilson finished, all the medical personnel left the room.
Koesler approached Millie. Clearly she was in great distress. He tried to touch one of her hands, but Millie shook him off and continued her ceaseless scratching.
Koesler strongly suspected she could hear him. He began slowly and loudly to recite the Twenty-Third, his favorite Psalm.
He thought she seemed more calm. Her expression appeared to have relaxed somewhat.
“. . .
He paused. She lost the little serenity she seemed to have gained. He took out the small booklet,
He looked long at the suffering woman whose affliction remained undiagnosed. Silently, Koesler commended her to the care of her personally selected physician, Dr. Jesus.
Peculiar how quickly the fortunes of life could change, thought Koesler, as he walked slowly up the corridor to the nurses’ station. It was just yesterday that Millie was, to the nonmedical eye at least, in fairly good condition. Indeed, it was Millie who had gone out of her way to assure her roommate, Alva, that an operation would go well. Now Alva, who seemed well, had, as promised, successfully undergone her operation and was divorcing herself from Millie’s predicament.
At the nurses’ station, Koesler shuffled through the patient lists trying to organize the order of his visits so he would not be constantly doubling back and forth. As he did so, he became aware of someone very nearby talking, but not to him. He looked up to see the same two nurses whom he’d recently observed in the cafeteria. They were again conversing and once more disregarding his presence.
“. . . Just the same, it’s not fair. How can he blame you for something that isn’t your fault? As a matter of fact, it’s probably his fault.”
“Maybe he’s just frustrated. After all, she was doing just fine yesterday.”
“That happens. I’ve seen it a zillion times. When you’ve had as much experience as I have you’ll know the signs.”
“Come on, now, I didn’t pass boards yesterday. I tell you this one’s different. It’s like she came in with one problem and overnight she came down with an entirely new and different illness.”
“Even that. I’ve seen that, too.”
“Maybe you’re right. But then, why was Dr. Wilson so bugged? He certainly must have encountered this before. I mean if you have—”
“Malpractice. They’re all running scared of malpractice suits.”
“You think she could sue?”
“If she survives, sure. If not, watch out for the relatives. How bad is she anyway?”
“Pretty bad. Blood pressure dangerously low. Looks as if she’s about to slip into a coma. Keeps scratching herself. Why would she be itchy? She certainly wasn’t yesterday.”
The blonde grew thoughtful. “Blood pressure dropping, and itching. Hmmm . . . I don’t know. Sounds like an allergic reaction to something. There was a patient here, oh, about four or five years ago, who had the same kind of reaction. I know the doctor had a hard time of it. At first he couldn’t . . .”
Koesler stopped listening. He was distracted by a memory. What was it the blonde nurse just said? She knew a patient who had had “an allergic reaction to something” and, as a result had ended up with about the same sort of symptoms as Millie Power.
Why did that ring a bell? Hadn’t Millie told him something to that effect? Something that had happened to her after she was admitted to the hospital. Somebody had asked her something. If she would be in some kind of test program. And she was about to agree to it when she remembered that she was allergic to penicillin. So they had taken her out of the program. Was it possible? It didn’t seem likely. But it certainly seemed possible.
“Excuse me . . .”He spoke up, interrupting the two nurses, who looked at him somewhat startled. “Excuse me,” he was speaking to the blonde nurse, “but did you just say something about a patient who had an allergic reaction or something . . . and that it produced symptoms something like what Millie Power has?”
The blonde nodded. It was obvious from the roman collar beneath his hospital jacket that he was with the pastoral care department. Her expression was a blend of “What’s it to you?” and “Where did you come from?”
“Well,” Koesler said almost apologetically, “I was just wondering: When I first visited with Millie, she mentioned that shortly after she was admitted, a doctor asked her to be a part of some hospital experiment. And she was about to say yes when she remembered that she had an allergy to penicillin. And she would have been given penicillin if she had been in the experiment. Do you suppose there could have been some mix-up and she got included in the test? And that what she’s got now could be a reaction to the penicillin?”
With a look of great incredulity, the brunette slowly extracted Millie Power’s chart from the file drawer, carefully opened it, and studied it.
“Well . . . I’ll be damned,” the brunette said. After a brief pause, she added, “Oh, excuse me, Father.”
