him directly in the eye.
“Bugger. We can’t wait. Time matters. If I’m right, Doctor Pilkington will confirm it—when he gets here.” And if I’m wrong, what the hell will Doctor Micks do? he wondered. “The sooner we get started—rules be damned—the better. Get some quinidine. You said two grains?”
“Come with me, Nurse O’Hallorhan,” Sister said. “You can watch me prepare a quinidine solution.”
The nurse looked at Fingal and whispered, “Good luck,” before she left.
He turned back to Mister KD. To hell with rules and to hell with initials. Fingal picked up the chart and read “Kevin Doherty.” The poor man did have a name; he wasn’t merely a case of valvular disease complicated by fibrillation. O’Reilly sat on the bed and took a clammy hand in his own. “It’s all right, Kevin,” he said softly. “It’s all right. We’ll get you fixed,” even though Fingal was not one bit sure they would.
Kevin Doherty managed to nod. He squeezed Fingal’s hand. When Sister and Nurse O’Hallorhan reappeared, the student nurse held out a small glass of milky-coloured liquid.
Fingal took it. “Kevin,” he said, “I want you to swallow this. I’ll help you.” He held Doherty by the shoulders, feeling the rise and fall of the man’s chest. “Open wide.” It was like talking to a child. “Wide.” As soon as Doherty had opened his mouth, Fingal held the glass to the man’s lips. He gulped, swallowed, and slumped back against Fingal’s arm.
He lowered the patient to his pillows and took his hand again. A feeble grip was returned.
“Was that digitalis or quinidine?” Doctor Pilkington asked.
Fingal had not noticed his arrival on the opposite side of the bed.
Pilkington, without waiting for an answer, took Doherty’s pulse. “Atrial fib. All right.” He released the man’s wrist. “Taking the pulse is all you need to make the diagnosis. Sorry, I asked you—”
“Quinidine.”
“I’ll confirm that order,” he said to Sister. “Well done.”
So it would not need to be reported that Fingal had acted without authority. “I can’t take credit for the prescription. I asked Sister what she would suggest and she thought quinidine would be best,” he said.
“And she’s rarely wrong.” Fingal heard the respect in the young doctor’s voice. “It’s a braver man than me who’ll ignore the advice of a nursing sister and a fool who doesn’t recognise that early.”
“I believe,” Sister Daly said quietly, “Mister O’Reilly is no amadán, so.” She smiled at Fingal, who was relieved to learn that the ward sister believed he wasn’t an idiot.
“Although his language could use some attention,” she said.
Fingal remembered his intemperate “bugger” and “be damned.” “Sorry, Sister.”
“Och,” she said, “it is not unusual for a body to forget his manners when he’s under the gun. It’s more important he not lose his wits, and panic, so.” She glanced at Nurse O’Hallorhan. “Perhaps it’s not such a bad thing Mister O’Reilly was delayed going to his lunch.”
Fingal swallowed. It sounded to him that Sister Daly was offering her forgiveness. “Thank you, Sister,” he said. He noticed Geoff Pilkington inclining his head to one side and moving off, a signal he wanted to talk away from the patient. Fingal tried to remove his hand, but the grip tightened. He bent. “It’s all right, Kevin. I’ll be back in a minute.” He looked at Sister. “He’s scared skinny. Could maybe you or the nurse stay with him until I get back?”
“Nurse,” was all Sister needed to say for Nurse O’Hallorhan to take the patient’s other hand.
Sister turned to leave. “I have to deal with other matters. Please don’t keep my nurse too long.” She smiled and said quietly, “You did well.”
Fingal inclined his head. He took a last glance at the patient, who was still struggling for every breath, then joined Geoff. “Yes, Geoff?”
Geoff’s face was
“Bugger. We can’t wait. Time matters. If I’m right, Doctor Pilkington will confirm it—when he gets here.” And if I’m wrong, what the hell will Doctor Micks do? he wondered. “The sooner we get started—rules be damned—the better. Get some quinidine. You said two grains?”
“Come with me, Nurse O’Hallorhan,” Sister said. “You can watch me prepare a quinidine solution.”
The nurse looked at Fingal and whispered, “Good luck,” before she left.
He turned back to Mister KD. To hell with rules and to hell with initials. Fingal picked up the chart and read “Kevin Doherty.” The poor man did have a name; he wasn’t merely a case of valvular disease complicated by fibrillation. O’Reilly sat on the bed and took a clammy hand in his own. “It’s all right, Kevin,” he said softly. “It’s all right. We’ll get you fixed,” even though Fingal was not one bit sure they would.
Kevin Doherty managed to nod. He squeezed Fingal’s hand. When Sister and Nurse O’Hallorhan reappeared, the student nurse held out a small glass of milky-coloured liquid.
Fingal took it. “Kevin,” he said, “I want you to swallow this. I’ll help you.” He held Doherty by the shoulders, feeling the rise and fall of the man’s chest. “Open wide.” It was like talking to a child. “Wide.” As soon as Doherty had opened his mouth, Fingal held the glass to the man’s lips. He gulped, swallowed, and slumped back against Fingal’s arm.
He lowered the patient to his pillows and took his hand again. A feeble grip was returned.
“Was that digitalis or quinidine?” Doctor Pilkington asked.
Fingal had not noticed his arrival on the opposite side of the bed.
Pilkington, without waiting for an answer, took Doherty’s pulse. “Atrial fib. All right.” He released the man’s wrist. “Taking the pulse is all you need to make the diagnosis. Sorry, I asked you—”
“Quinidine.”
“I’ll confirm that order,” he said to Sister. “Well done.”
So it would not need to be reported that Fingal had acted without authority. “I can’t take credit for the prescription. I asked Sister what she would suggest and she thought quinidine would be best,” he said.
“And she’s rarely wrong.” Fingal heard the respect in the young doctor’s voice. “It’s a braver man than me who’ll ignore the advice of a nursing sister and a fool who doesn’t recognise that early.”
“I believe,” Sister Daly said quietly, “Mister O’Reilly is no amadán, so.” She smiled at Fingal, who was relieved to learn that the ward sister believed he wasn’t an idiot.
“Although his language could use some attention,” she said.
Fingal remembered his intemperate “bugger” and “be damned.” “Sorry, Sister.”
“Och,” she said, “it is not unusual for a body to forget his manners when he’s under the gun. It’s more important he not lose his wits, and panic, so.” She glanced at Nurse O’Hallorhan. “Perhaps it’s not such a bad thing Mister O’Reilly was delayed going to his lunch.”
Fingal swallowed. It sounded to him that Sister Daly was offering her forgiveness. “Thank you, Sister,” he said. He noticed Geoff Pilkington inclining his head to one side and moving off, a signal he wanted to talk away from the patient. Fingal tried to remove his hand, but the grip tightened. He bent. “It’s all right, Kevin. I’ll be back in a minute.” He looked at Sister. “He’s scared skinny. Could maybe you or the nurse stay with him until I get back?”
“Nurse,” was all Sister needed to say for Nurse O’Hallorhan to take the patient’s other hand.
Sister turned to leave. “I have to deal with other matters. Please don’t keep my nurse too long.” She smiled and said quietly, “You did well.”
Fingal inclined his head. He took a last glance at the patient, who was still struggling for every breath, then joined Geoff. “Yes, Geoff?”
Geoff’s face was
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