As Michael approached, Lynn felt thankful for their relationship and grateful to the school for having paired them up. She had never had a male friend like Michael, and valued their relationship, as he had truly expanded her life in so many ways. And now, if the neurology resident was right in his prognosis of Carl’s condition, she was going to need Michael’s support more than ever.
“Okay, whassup?” Michael said, affecting nonchalance while sliding his tray onto the table. He settled his solid two-hundred-pound frame onto the chair, which squeaked in protest. He picked up his sandwich and took a healthy bite.
For a minute Lynn was unable to speak. She wasn’t one to cry often, possibly because of a reaction to the stereotype, and she didn’t want to cry now. She felt torn. She wanted Michael’s support to avoid the sense of isolation that she was already feeling from the shock of this unfolding calamity, yet she worried that telling Michael about what had happened would make it more real. As a medical student, she knew enough about the psychology of the grief reaction to know that she was still solidly in the early denial stage.
Michael did not press her. He chewed his sandwich and took another bite, seemingly ignoring her. He was content to wait. He knew her well enough to be concerned. Something significant was in the wind, and it had to do with Carl and his surgery.
Lynn took a drink of water and then closed her eyes tightly. When she opened them she let the facts flow out, explaining about Carl’s apparent anesthesia disaster and how she had gone up to the neuro ICU and talked with the neurology resident. She concluded by saying that Carl’s Glasgow score was only five and that the neurology resident said the prognosis was dismal.
Michael put his sandwich down and pushed his plate away as if he had lost his appetite. “That’s a low Glasgow score.”
Lynn stared at her friend. There were lots of times that he amazed her, and this was an example. She had never heard of a Glasgow score, and Michael apparently had, despite the fact that they both had taken the same neurology rotation during their third year. He had a facility to remember facts no matter how obscure. “How do you know about the Glasgow score? I don’t think I have ever heard of it.”
“Let’s just say I had reason. It is a way to evaluate people in a coma. What was the neurology resident’s name?”
“Charles Stuart, I think. I don’t know for sure. My mind isn’t working at full speed.”
“I don’t think we had him for any part of our neurology rotation.”
“I know for sure we didn’t. I had never seen him before.”
“What else did he say besides the Glasgow score and that the prognosis was not good?”
“He said that he expected to see extensive laminar necrosis on the MRI when they do it.”
“I don’t know what laminar necrosis is.”
“I don’t, either, but it is not hard to guess.”
Michael nodded. “Did you talk to anyone else, like the surgeon or the anesthesiologist?”
“I haven’t spoken to anyone. I wanted to talk to you first.”
“Did you look at the anesthesia record?”
“No. All I did was see if it was Carl, and it is. He’s in a freaking coma, for Chrissake! And I was the one who recommended the doctor and encouraged him to get his fucking knee fixed here at Mason-Dixon.”
Michael reached out and enveloped Lynn’s comparatively narrow wrist with his large hand. His grip was firm. “Listen, sister,” he began. When they were alone together they jokingly called each other sister and bro, a bit of Black argot that Michael had instigated as a sign of their platonic intimacy and comfort with each other. As a further sign of their closeness, he also treated her to basketball metaphors he’d used with his buddies in high school. “I can tell you right off the top, you are not responsible for whatever happened during today’s game. You weren’t a player. No fucking way!”
Despite her efforts at control, tears brimmed and some spilled over Lynn’s cheeks. She wiped away the moisture with a knuckle of her first finger. “I know I’m going to feel a certain amount of guilt no matter what; I know myself well enough. But what about his parents? They had wanted him to have his surgery over at Roper Hospital. Why did I interfere?”
Carl’s father was a lawyer in Charleston like his son but at a different firm and involved in a different specialty. The father’s area of interest was litigation and criminal law, unlike Carl’s emphasis on real estate and corporate law. His mother was an elementary school teacher. The parents lived in the same house in West Ashley where Carl had grown up. Lynn had met them on numerous occasions, particularly over the last several years, as Lynn and Carl’s relationship had solidified. Even Michael had met them for a couple of celebratory birthday dinners.
“The Vandermeers are smart people,” Michael said. “And it’s easy to see they care for you. They are not going to blame you. No way!”
“I’m not sure I wouldn’t if I were them.”
“But we’re jumping the gun here. We don’t really know as an absolute certainty what’s going on. Here’s my take: Let’s hightail it up to the neuro ICU before our dermatology lecture and check out Carl’s chart.” Mason-Dixon Medical Center had a fully integrated EMR, but there were still physical charts for inpatients while they were in the hospital. There had been some talk of completely phasing out the charts, but it hadn’t happened, at least not yet.
“What will that accomplish?” Lynn wasn’t sure she could go back quite so soon. Seeing Carl in a comatose state was enormously unsettling, to say the very least.
“I don’t know, but we will have a better idea of what happened. There has to be an anesthesia record in the chart. I mean, there must be some explanation. Come on!” Michael started to get to his feet.
Lynn grabbed Michael by the sleeve of his white coat. “They are not going to look kindly on two medical students appearing without authorization to look at a chart in the ICU.”
“Leave it to me,” Michael said. “As I’ve told you in the past, most people think I’m either a token or a Tom. Sometimes it causes problems, but sometimes it helps. This is one of the times it will help. Trust me! Besides, I’ve done it before.”
“In the neuro ICU?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“About three months ago.”
“Why?”
“We’ll talk about that later. Let’s go up there and see Carl and hope to hell Doc Stuart is wrong.” Michael got to his feet and tugged on Lynn’s arm to get her to stand. To Michael she looked like a deer caught in headlights. He picked up his tray and carried it over to the window. Lynn followed. She appreciated that someone else was making the decisions.
6
Monday, April 6, 12:40 P.M.