The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [39]
Even his afternoon office hours, at times embarrassingly slow, were made pleasantly hectic today by frequent phone calls from the hospital nurses to clarify orders or discuss problems.
At precisely five o’clock, as the door closed behind the last patient, David’s office nurse, Mrs. Houlihan, yelled, “Dr. Shelton, there’s a call for you from Dr. Armstrong. Her secretary is putting her on. You can pick up on three.”
“Very funny,” David shouted back from his office. He had only one telephone: its number happened to end in three. It was good to see Houlihan enjoying the unaccustomed busy day as much as he was.
“I’m off to cook up some hash for my brood. Good night, Doctor,” she called out.
“Good night, Houlihan,” David answered.
Moments later, Dr. Margaret Armstrong came on the line. As the first female chief of cardiology at a major hospital, Armstrong had earned nearly as much of a reputation in her field as had Wallace Huttner in his. Of all those on the medical staff of Doctors Hospital, she had been the most cordial and helpful to David, especially during his first year. Although she referred her patients to cardiac surgeons almost exclusively, or, where appropriate, to Huttner, she had, on several occasions, sent a case to David, taking pains each time to send him a thank-you note for the excellent care he delivered.
“David? How are things going?” she asked now.
“Busy today, but enjoying every minute, Dr. Armstrong.” Perhaps it was the regal bearing, the aristocratic air that surrounded the woman, perhaps it was the twenty or so years difference in their ages—whatever the reason, David had never once had the impulse to address Margaret Armstrong by her first name. Nor had he ever been encouraged to.
“Well, I’m calling to see if I can make it busier for you,” Armstrong said. “To be perfectly honest, I called Wally Huttner’s office first, but I was pleased to hear that you’re covering for him.”
“Thanks. Fire away.”
“It’s an elderly gentleman named Butterworth—Aldous Butterworth, if you will. He’s seventy-seven, but bright and spry as a puppy. He was doing fine for a week following a minor coronary until just a little while ago, when he suddenly started complaining about tingling and pain in his right leg. His pulses have disappeared from the groin on down.”
“Embolus?” David asked, more out of courtesy than any uncertainty about the diagnosis.
“I would think so, David. The leg is already developing some pallor. Are you in the mood to fish us out a clot?”
“Happy to.” David beamed. “Have you gone over the risks with him?”
“Yes, but it wouldn’t hurt for you to do it again. David, I’m a bit worried about general anesthesia in this man. Do you think it might be possible to …”
David was so excited about capping his day with a major case that he actually cut her short. “Do him under local? Absolutely. It’s the only way to fly.”
“I knew I could count on you,” Armstrong said. “I am most anxious to hear how things go. Aldous is a dear old friend as well as a patient. Listen, there’s an Executive Committee meeting in an hour, and as chief of staff in this madhouse I have to attend. Could I meet you somewhere later this evening?”
“Sure,” David said. “I have several patients to see before I head home. How about Four South? I’ve got a woman to see there with total body failure. Maybe you can even come up with some ideas.”
“Glad to try,” Armstrong said. “Eight o’clock?”
“Eight o’clock,” David echoed.
Hands scrubbed and clasped protectively in front of him, David backed into Operating Room 10, then slipped into a surgical gown and began making preparations to orchestrate and conduct his own symphony. Aldous Butterworth seemed small and vulnerable stretched out on the narrow operating table.
David ordered Butterworth’s right foot placed in a clear, plastic bag to keep it visible without contaminating his operative field. The foot was the color of white marble.
Using small injections, he deadened an area of the man’s right groin. With no pulse to guide him, he knew that the femoral artery