Robin Cook
Host
For Cameron, an exemplary boy who is fast becoming a man — find your passion, son, and have a great life!
Prologue
The following private journal entries were written by the late Kate Hurley, a thirty-seven-year-old, physically fit (played lots of tennis and was careful about her diet), moderately compulsive, third-grade elementary school teacher and doting mother of two boys, aged eleven and eight. Until her death during a horrific home invasion, she lived with her family at 1440 Bay View Drive in Mount Pleasant, South Carolina, across the harbor from Charleston. The house stands in a relatively secluded wooded section at the very end of the road. She was married to Robert Hurley, an aggressive personal-injury lawyer.
Saturday, March 28, 8:35 A.M.
It is a dreary, gray day as I look out the window of my hospital room in the Mason-Dixon Medical Center. Hardly the spring weather we all expect. I haven’t been good about writing in my journal over the last six months even though doing so has always been a great solace for me. Unfortunately I have been exhausted at night and much too busy getting the boys and myself ready for school in the morning, but I will make an effort to change. I could use the consolation. I am in the hospital, feeling sorry for myself after a dreadful night. It had started promisingly enough as Bob and I had met Ginny and Harold Lawler for dinner on Sullivan’s Island. They all had fish, and in retrospect, I wish I had done the same. Unfortunately I had chosen the duck, which was prepared on the rare side and which I would later learn from the emergency room physician probably had been contaminated, most likely with salmonella. I began to feel strange even before finishing the entrée, and it got progressively worse. While Bob was taking home the babysitter, I had my first episode of vomiting — not pleasant! I made a mess of myself and the bathroom. Luckily I was able to clean it up before Bob returned. He was sympathetic but tired from a busy day at the office and soon turned in. Since I still felt horrid, I parked myself in the bathroom and threw up several more times, even after I thought there was no way there could be any more food in my system. By two A.M. I realized I was weak and getting weaker. It was then that I woke up Bob. He took one look at me and judged that I needed to be seen by a doctor. Our health plan directed us to the Mason-Dixon Medical Center over in Charleston. Luckily we were able to get Bob’s mom to come over to be with the kids. She’s been a lifesaver on a number of occasions, this being one of them. At the emergency room, the nurses and the doctors were great. Of course I was mortified as the vomiting continued and bloody diarrhea began. I was started on an IV and given some medication, which I’m sure they explained, but I don’t remember. They also advised that I be admitted. I felt so out of it that I didn’t object, even though I have always feared hospitals. I also must have been given a sedative, because I don’t even remember Bob leaving or my being transferred from the ER to a hospital room. Yet a few hours later I do remember partially awakening when someone, probably a nurse, came into the dark room and adjusted or added something to the IV. It was as if I were dreaming, because the person appeared like an apparition, with blond hair and dressed in white. I tried to talk but couldn’t, at least not intelligently. When I awoke this morning I felt like I had been run over by a truck. I tried to get out of bed to use the bathroom but couldn’t, at least initially, and had to call for assistance. It is one of the things that I dislike about being in a hospitaclass="underline" you’re not in control. You have to give up all autonomy when you check in.
The nurse who helped me said that a doctor would be by shortly. I will finish this entry when I get home to talk about how this episode has made me realize how much I take general health for granted. I had never had food poisoning before. It is much worse than I had imagined. In fact it is god-awful! That’s all I can say.
Sunday, March 29, 1:20 P.M.
Obviously I already have failed to follow my resolution about writing in this journal more frequently. I did not finish yesterday’s entry as I promised myself because things did not go as I had planned. Soon after I had written the above, I was visited by one of the hospital’s resident physicians, Dr. Clair Webster, who noticed something that I hadn’t, namely that I had a fever. It wasn’t a high fever, but it was a change, since I had a normal temperature the night before. Although I didn’t realize it, machines were recording my pulse, blood pressure, and temperature continuously, which was why I hadn’t seen anyone during the night except for the person who had adjusted my intravenous. Even my IV is being controlled by a small computerized device. So much for the human touch in the modern hospital! Dr. Webster said my temperature had started rising about six A.M. and that she wanted to wait to see what it did before discharging me. I called Bob to let him know about the delay.
As it turned out, it was more than a delay, as my temperature did not return to normal but rather proceeded to climb all day and all night up to 104º F, so here I am still. And there have been some further complications. Right after Bob and the boys left from their afternoon visit yesterday (the boys were not supposed to visit because of their ages but Bob snuck them up to the room) I started to get very achy, and now I understand what people mean when they say they have joint pain. Worse than that, I have begun to have some breathing problems, and as if that is not enough, when I took a shower yesterday, I noticed I had a slight rash under my arms, and under my breasts, that are flat, tiny red dots. Luckily they don’t itch. The nurse said I had some on the whites of my eyes also. All that brought the resident doctor back. She said that she was confused because the symptoms were suggesting I might have typhoid fever, and she insisted I be seen by an infectious-disease specialist. So he came by and examined me. Thankfully he said it wasn’t typhoid and gave a number of reasons, chief of which was that I didn’t have the right strain of salmonella. Still, he was concerned that my heart had speeded up while I’ve been in the hospital. To check this out, he called in a cardiologist, a Dr. Christopher Hobart, who examined me as well. My room was like a convention center, with all these doctors coming and going. Dr. Hobart immediately ordered a chest X-ray because he thought I was having some fat embolization! As soon as I had a chance I looked up fat embolization online (thank God for the Internet) and found out it is globules of fat in the bloodstream, a condition usually seen in patients with severe trauma, including broken bones. Of course I haven’t had any trauma except emotional, so the cardiologist concluded it was from severe dehydration. But since I already had the intravenous line, he said there was no need for any further treatment, especially since my breathing seemed entirely normal. I was pleased about that, but, I have to say, all this has made my hospital phobia skyrocket. I read something about hospital complications a few months ago in the Post and Courier, and what was going on with me seemed similar and was making me really anxious. The only thing that was wrong with me when I came in Friday night was food poisoning, and now I was supposedly having fat embolization. I called Bob and told him how I felt and that I wanted to get out of this place and come home. He advised me to be patient and that we would discuss it later, when he comes to visit, after his mother comes over to the house to watch the kids. I will finish this entry after Bob and I talk. On top of my other symptoms I’m having some trouble concentrating.
Monday, March 30, 9:30 A.M.
Once again I failed to write in the journal, as I had planned after Bob’s visit. My excuse was feeling spaced out. That’s the best way I can describe it. I had written yesterday at the very end of the entry that I was having trouble concentrating. It got worse. I don’t even remember all that Bob and I talked about when he was here, although I do remember that he, too, got upset about all my emerging symptoms, demanding to talk to the doctors who had come to examine me. Whether he did or not, I don’t know. And I don’t remember much else that he said, although I do remember that he was going to call Dr. Curtis Fletcher, our old family doctor, and get him involved.