Sean excused himself and pushed through the tumult, bumping into hospital personnel as well as ambulatory patients. With a modicum of difficulty he proceeded down the central corridor, checking each door as he went. Radiology and chemistry were on the left, treatment rooms, ICU, and the surgical suites were on the right. Knowing that the pheresis was a long procedure and not labor-intensive, Sean decided to try to find Helen Cabot. Besides looking at her chart, he wanted to say hello.
Spotting a hematology technician sporting rubber tourniquets attached to her belt loops, Sean asked her where pheresis was done. The woman guided Sean through a side corridor and pointed toward two rooms. Sean thanked her and checked the first. A male patient was on the gurney. Sean closed the door and opened the other. Even from the threshold he recognized the patient: it was Helen Cabot.
She was the only one there. Outflow and inflow lines were attached to her left arm as her blood was being passed through a machine that separated the elements, isolating the lymphocytes and returning the rest of the blood to her body.
Helen turned her bandaged head in Sean’s direction. She recognized him immediately and tried to smile. Instead, tears formed in her large green eyes.
From her color and general appearance Sean could see that her condition had dramatically worsened. The seizures she’d been suffering had been taking a heavy toll.
“It’s good to see you,” Sean said as he bent down to bring his face close to hers. He resisted an urge to hold and comfort her. “How are you doing?”
“It’s been difficult,” Helen managed to say. “I had another biopsy yesterday. It wasn’t fun. They also warned me I might get worse when they started the treatment, and I have. They told me I was not to lose faith. But it’s been hard. My headaches have been unbearable. It even hurts to talk.”
“You have to hold on,” Sean said. “Keep remembering that they have put every medulloblastoma patient into remission.”
“That’s what I keep reminding myself,” Helen said.
“I’ll try to come to see you every day,” Sean said. “Meanwhile, where’s your chart?”
“I think it’s out in the waiting room,” Helen said, pointing with her free hand toward a second door.
Sean gave her a warm smile. He squeezed her shoulder, then stepped into the small waiting room that connected to the corridor. On a counter was what he was searching for: Helen’s chart.
Sean picked it up and flipped to the order sheets. Drugs similar to those he’d seen in Martin’s chart were duly noted: MB300C and MB303C. He then turned to the beginning of the chart and saw a copy of his own workup which had been sent as part of the referral package.
Flipping the pages quickly, Sean came to the progress note section, and he read the entry for the biopsy that had been taken the day before, indicating they had gone in over the right ear. The note went on to say that the patient had tolerated the procedure well.
Sean had just begun to scan for the laboratory section to see if a frozen section had been done when he was interrupted. The door to the hallway crashed open and slammed against the wall with such force that the doorknob dented the plaster.
The sudden crash startled Sean. He dropped the chart onto the plastic laminate countertop. In front of him and filling the entire doorway was the formidable figure of Margaret Richmond. Sean recognized her immediately as the nursing director who’d burst into Dr. Mason’s office. Apparently the woman made a habit of such dramatic entries.
“What are you doing in here?” she demanded. “And what are you doing with that chart?” Her broad, round face was distorted with outrage.
Sean toyed with the idea of giving her a flip answer, but he thought better of it.
“I’m looking in on a friend,” Sean said. “Miss Cabot was a patient of mine in Boston.”
“You have no right to her chart,” Ms. Richmond blustered. “Patients’ charts are confidential documents, available only to the patient and his doctors. We view our responsibility in this regard very seriously.”
“I’m confident the patient would be willing to give me access,” Sean said. “Perhaps we should step into the next room and ask her.”
“You are not here as a clinical fellow,” Ms. Richmond shouted, ignoring Sean’s suggestion. “You are here in a research capacity only. Your arrogance in thinking that you have a right to invade this hospital is inexcusable.”
Sean saw a familiar face appear over Ms. Richmond’s intimidating shoulder. It was the puffy, smug countenance of the frustrated Marine, Robert Harris. Sean suddenly guessed what had happened. Undoubtedly he’d been picked up by one of the surveillance cameras, probably one in the second-floor corridor. Harris had called Richmond and then had come over to watch the slaughter.
Knowing that Robert Harris was involved, Sean could no longer resist the urge to lash back, particularly since Ms. Richmond wasn’t responding to his attempts to be reasonable.
“Since you people aren’t in the mood to discuss this like adults,” Sean said, “I think I’ll wander back to the research building.”
“Your impertinence only makes matters worse,” Ms. Richmond sputtered. “You’re trespassing, invading privacy, and showing no remorse. I’m surprised the governors of Harvard University would let someone like you into their institution.”
“I’ll let you in on a secret,” Sean said. “They weren’t all that impressed with my manners. They liked my facility with a puck. Now, I’d really like to stay and chat with you people, but I’ve got to get back to my murine friends who, by the way, have more pleasant personalities than most of the staff here at Forbes.”
Sean watched as Ms. Richmond’s face empurpled. This was just one more of a series of ridiculous episodes that had him fed up. Consequently he derived perverse pleasure out of goading and angering this woman who could easily have played linebacker for the Miami Dolphins.
“Get out of here before I call the police,” Ms. Richmond yelled.
Sean thought that calling the police would be interesting. He could just imagine some poor uniformed rookie trying to figure out how to categorize Sean’s offense. Sean could see it in the paper: Harvard extern actually looks into his patient’s chart!
Sean stepped forward, literally eye to eye with Ms. Richmond. He smiled, pouring on his old charm. “I know you’ll miss me,” he said, “but I really must go.”
Both Ms. Richmond and Harris followed him all the way to the pedestrian bridge that spanned the gulf between the hospital and the research building. The whole time they maintained a loud dialogue about the degeneracy of current-day youth. Sean had the feeling he was being run out of town.
As Sean walked across the bridge he recognized how much he would have to depend on Janet for clinical material pertaining to the medulloblastoma study, provided, of course, he stayed.
Returning to his fifth-floor lab, Sean tried to lose himself in his work to repress the anger and frustration he felt toward the ridiculous situation he found himself in. Like the empty room upstairs, Helen’s chart didn’t have anything in it to get upset about. But as he cooled down, Sean was able to acknowledge that Ms. Richmond did have a point. As much as he hated to admit it, the Forbes was a private hospital. It wasn’t a teaching hospital like the Boston Memorial, where teaching and patient care went hand in hand. Here, Helen’s chart was confidential. Yet even if it was, Ms. Richmond’s fury was hardly appropriate for his infraction.
In spite of himself, within an hour Sean became engrossed in his crystal-growing attempts. Then, as he held a flask up against the overhead light, he caught a bit of movement out of the corner of his eye. It was a rerun of the incident on his first day. Once again the movement had come from the direction of the stairwell.
Without so much as looking in the direction of the stairwell, Sean calmly got off his stool and walked into the storeroom as if he needed some supplies. Since the storeroom was connected to the central corridor, Sean was able to dash the length of the building to the stairwell opposite the one where he’d seen the movement.
Racing down a flight, he ran the length of the fourth floor to enter the opposite stairwell. Moving as silently as possible, he climbed the stairs until the fifth-floor landing came into view. As he’d suspected, Hiroshi was there furtively looking through the glass of the door, obviously baffled as to why Sean had not returned from the storeroom.
Sean tiptoed up the remaining stairs until he was standing directly behind Hiroshi. Then he screamed as loud as he was able. Within the confines of the stairwell, Sean was impressed with the amount of noise he was capable of generating.
Having seen a few Chuck Norris martial arts movies, Sean had been a little concerned that Hiroshi might turn
