Jennifer.
“I couldn’t go with my back the way it is and everything.”
“How was this surgery set up?” Jennifer questioned. She wanted to get off the phone. The fact that no one had called Juan was definitely encouraging.
“By a company in Chicago called Foreign Medical Solutions.”
“Do you have the number handy?”
“Yeah, just a sec.” Jennifer could hear the receiver drop onto the tiny side table. She could picture it by the entrance door in the part of the apartment that was supposed to be used for a dining table but which contained Juan’s bed. A minute later Juan came back and rattled off the Chicago number. As soon as Jennifer had it, she hung up. She didn’t feel like hypocritical small talk or even saying good-bye. With the number in hand she dialed Foreign Medical Solutions, and after telling an operator who she was and what she was calling for, she was switched to an individual named Michelle, whose title was case manager. The woman had an impressively deep, resonant voice with a slight southern accent. After Jennifer repeated her story, Michelle asked her to hold the line. For a few moments Jennifer could hear the unmistakable sound of a computer keyboard in use as Michelle pulled up Maria Hernandez’s file.
“What is it you were hoping to learn?” Michelle asked, coming back on the line. “As a medical student, you’re probably aware that HIPAA rules limit what we can give out, even if you are who you say you are.”
“First I wanted to make sure she’s okay.”
“She’s doing very well. She had her surgery, which went smoothly. She spent less than an hour in the PACU, and then was moved to her room. It’s indicated she’s already started fluids by mouth. That’s the latest entry.”
“Was that recently?”
“It was, indeed. Just a little more than an hour ago.”
“That’s good news,” Jennifer said. She was even more relieved than when Juan said he’d heard nothing. “Do most of your patients from the Queen Victoria Hospital do well?”
“They do. It is a popular hospital. We’ve even had one patient insist on going back to the Queen Victoria for his second knee.”
“A testimonial is always good,” Jennifer said. “Can I call the hospital and try to talk with my grandmother?”
“Certainly,” Michelle said, and rattled off the number.
“What time is it now in New Delhi?” Jennifer asked.
“Let’s see.” There was a pause. “I often get this mixed up. It’s nine-fifty-five a.m. here so I believe it is nine- twenty-five p.m. in New Delhi. They are ten and a half hours ahead of us here in Chicago.”
“Would it be an okay time to call?”
“I really couldn’t say,” Michelle responded.
Jennifer thanked the woman. For a moment she thought about trying her grandmother’s cell phone but then nixed the idea. In contrast to Jennifer’s AT&T phone, she didn’t think her grandmother’s Verizon would work in India. She called the Queen Victoria Hospital. As the call went through in literally seconds, Jennifer couldn’t help being impressed, especially since she had no idea how cell phones, or any phone for that matter, worked. A moment later she found herself conversing in English halfway around the world with a woman with a pleasantly melodic and distinctive Indian accent. It was somewhat similar in Jennifer’s ear to an English accent but more musical.
“I can’t believe I’m talking to someone in India,” Jennifer effused.
“You are welcome,” the hospital operator said somewhat inappropriately. “But you probably talk to India more than you realize, with our many call centers.”
Jennifer gave her grandmother’s name and asked if she could be connected to her room.
“I’m very sorry,” the operator answered, “but we are not able to forward calls after eight in the evening. If you had the extension, you could call direct.”
“Can you give me the extension?”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not allowed, for obvious reasons. Otherwise, I would connect you.”
“I understand,” Jennifer said, but she still felt there hadn’t been any harm in asking. “Can you tell me how she is doing?”
“Oh, yes, of course. We have a list right here. What is the surname again?”
Jennifer repeated “Hernandez.”
“Here she is,” the operator said. “She’s doing very well and already taking nourishment and has been mobilized. The doctors say they are very pleased.”
“That’s terrific,” Jennifer responded. “Tell me, does she have someone there at the hospital who is in charge of her case?”
“Oh, yes, indeed! All our foreign visitors have a host-country case manager. Your grandmother’s is Kashmira Varini.”
“Can I leave a message for her?”
“Yes. Would you prefer I take it or would you like to leave it on her voicemail? I can connect you.”
“Voicemail would be fine,” Jennifer said. She was impressed. Her brief exposure to an Indian hospital suggested it was quite civilized and certainly equipped with contemporary communications.
Following Kashmira Varini’s pleasant outgoing message, Jennifer left her name, her relationship to Maria Hernandez, and a request to be kept informed of her granny’s progress or, at the very least, to be informed if there happened to be any problems or complications. Before disconnecting, Jennifer slowly and distinctly gave her cell phone number. She wanted to be certain there would be no mistakes because of accent. Jennifer knew she had a strong New York accent.
Flipping her phone closed, Jennifer started to put it back into the locker but then paused. She thought the likelihood of another Maria Hernandez from Queens having surgery at nearly the same time as her grandmother in the same hospital in India was quite small. Actually, it seemed completely far-fetched, and the idea of calling CNN and telling them as much crossed her mind. Jennifer was an activist, not a ponderer, and didn’t hesitate to speak her mind, which she felt CNN deserved for not adequately vetting their story before putting it on the air. But then a more intelligent, less emotional frame of mind prevailed. Who could she call at CNN, and what were her chances of getting any kind of satisfaction? Besides, she suddenly looked at her watch. Seeing that it was now after eight, a shiver of anxiety descended her spine like a surge of electricity. She was late for her first day of her surgery elective, despite her efforts to the contrary.
Jennifer slammed the locker closed, and as she ran for the door, she put her phone on vibrate and slipped it into her scrub pants pocket along with the safety pin and the key. She was truly worried. Being late was not the way to begin a new rotation, especially with a compulsive surgeon, and from her experience in third-year surgery, they were all compulsive.
Chapter 2
OCTOBER 15, 2007
MONDAY, 11:05 A.M.
NEW YORK, USA
(SIMULTANEOUS WITH JENNIFER’S BEING CHIDED FOR BEING LATE
BY HER NEW PRECEPTOR)
Can you see them?” Dr. Shirley Schoener asked. Dr. Schoener was a gynecologist who had specialized in infertility. Although she’d never admitted it, she’d gone into medicine as a way of superstitiously dealing with her
