Staphylococcus epidermidis.”
David couldn’t believe he’d spewed those chunks out.
The physicians couldn’t believe it either.
“Where the hell did you … ?” The first physician almost dropped the phone.
The second physician drew his head back. “But naturally adapted strep and staph are almost never …”
“Fatal?” David shuddered. “This time they will be.”
His legs buckled. The room spun along with his brain. He lost his grip on the chair.
“My God, he’s …”
Falling.
“Having a …”
Drifting.
Toppling.
“Heart attack.”
6
When David struck the floor, he couldn’t move; he felt disoriented, helpless. His fall, which seemed to have lasted forever, contrasted sickeningly with the sense he had of floating above his aged dying body. He seemed to drop and rise simultaneously—conflicting sensations that produced such vertigo he could barely muster the strength to blink.
Making these reactions more intense was the added element of fear, as if to move, to try to stand, would kill him.
Through a haze, he saw the first physician lunge from the room. The second physician knelt beside David, checking his pulse. After an interval—ten seconds? a minute?—the first physician rushed back, accompanied by Donna and a nurse.
“His pulse is strong.” The first physician’s voice was an echo. “No fibrillation. Ninety.”
“Acceptable,” the second physician said.
“No … normal for me is …” David’s chest heaved.
“Don’t try to talk.”
The nurse wrapped a blood-pressure cuff around David’s arm. Donna knelt beside him, touching his cheek, as the nurse inflated the cuff. David saw the fear in Donna’s eyes.
The nurse deflated the cuff, watching a dial as she listened to a stethoscope pressed to David’s arm. “A hundred and forty over ninety.”
“Tolerable. A little high, but not unusual. Not critical,” the second physician said.
“No. Listen. Normal for me is …”
“Don’t try to talk. Relax.”
Sure, easy for you to say, David thought, the room and his mind aswirl.
“What I told you a minute ago might not be true. Try not to worry. Our initial examination isn’t conclusive, but you might not be having a heart attack.”
“Then what … ?”
“We don’t know. We’ve alerted Emergency. We’re sending you down there. If it is a heart attack, we’re not equipped to deal with—”
“Stop the spinning. Stop the damned room from spinning .”
“David, I’m here. I’ll be with you,” Donna said. “I’ll stay right beside you.”
“No, stay with Matthew .” The effort to emphasize his words was excruciating.
David felt his body being lifted. He suddenly found himself in a wheelchair. He closed his eyes. But the tingling—and worse, the swirling—persisted.
Feeling the wheelchair being pushed, he groaned from increasing dizziness. Pressure accumulated behind his ears. He dared to open his eyes and discovered …
He was in an elevator. The doors hissed shut. The elevator dropped.
“No!”
At last he moved of his own accord, shoving his hands to his ears to stifle the pressure.
“No!”
The elevator jerked to a stop. The top of his head seemed about to explode. If someone hadn’t been holding him, he’d have toppled from the wheelchair.
Blinding lights. A swirling corridor.
But not the soothing gleam of the corridor in his nightmare. This was the hospital’s first floor. Rear section. The part that patients and visitors almost never saw and prayed they would never have to see. Through a spinning maze of twists and turns, he was rushed in his wheelchair toward the Emergency Ward. Outside, a wailing ambulance arrived. David concentrated to focus on glass doors that led to a curve in a driveway where attendants unloaded a patient onto a gurney. Through a blur, he saw a nurses’ station directly across from where the glass doors now slid open, the attendants hurrying the patient through.
David’s wheelchair stopped abruptly in
David couldn’t believe he’d spewed those chunks out.
The physicians couldn’t believe it either.
“Where the hell did you … ?” The first physician almost dropped the phone.
The second physician drew his head back. “But naturally adapted strep and staph are almost never …”
“Fatal?” David shuddered. “This time they will be.”
His legs buckled. The room spun along with his brain. He lost his grip on the chair.
“My God, he’s …”
Falling.
“Having a …”
Drifting.
Toppling.
“Heart attack.”
6
When David struck the floor, he couldn’t move; he felt disoriented, helpless. His fall, which seemed to have lasted forever, contrasted sickeningly with the sense he had of floating above his aged dying body. He seemed to drop and rise simultaneously—conflicting sensations that produced such vertigo he could barely muster the strength to blink.
Making these reactions more intense was the added element of fear, as if to move, to try to stand, would kill him.
Through a haze, he saw the first physician lunge from the room. The second physician knelt beside David, checking his pulse. After an interval—ten seconds? a minute?—the first physician rushed back, accompanied by Donna and a nurse.
“His pulse is strong.” The first physician’s voice was an echo. “No fibrillation. Ninety.”
“Acceptable,” the second physician said.
“No … normal for me is …” David’s chest heaved.
“Don’t try to talk.”
The nurse wrapped a blood-pressure cuff around David’s arm. Donna knelt beside him, touching his cheek, as the nurse inflated the cuff. David saw the fear in Donna’s eyes.
The nurse deflated the cuff, watching a dial as she listened to a stethoscope pressed to David’s arm. “A hundred and forty over ninety.”
“Tolerable. A little high, but not unusual. Not critical,” the second physician said.
“No. Listen. Normal for me is …”
“Don’t try to talk. Relax.”
Sure, easy for you to say, David thought, the room and his mind aswirl.
“What I told you a minute ago might not be true. Try not to worry. Our initial examination isn’t conclusive, but you might not be having a heart attack.”
“Then what … ?”
“We don’t know. We’ve alerted Emergency. We’re sending you down there. If it is a heart attack, we’re not equipped to deal with—”
“Stop the spinning. Stop the damned room from spinning .”
“David, I’m here. I’ll be with you,” Donna said. “I’ll stay right beside you.”
“No, stay with Matthew .” The effort to emphasize his words was excruciating.
David felt his body being lifted. He suddenly found himself in a wheelchair. He closed his eyes. But the tingling—and worse, the swirling—persisted.
Feeling the wheelchair being pushed, he groaned from increasing dizziness. Pressure accumulated behind his ears. He dared to open his eyes and discovered …
He was in an elevator. The doors hissed shut. The elevator dropped.
“No!”
At last he moved of his own accord, shoving his hands to his ears to stifle the pressure.
“No!”
The elevator jerked to a stop. The top of his head seemed about to explode. If someone hadn’t been holding him, he’d have toppled from the wheelchair.
Blinding lights. A swirling corridor.
But not the soothing gleam of the corridor in his nightmare. This was the hospital’s first floor. Rear section. The part that patients and visitors almost never saw and prayed they would never have to see. Through a spinning maze of twists and turns, he was rushed in his wheelchair toward the Emergency Ward. Outside, a wailing ambulance arrived. David concentrated to focus on glass doors that led to a curve in a driveway where attendants unloaded a patient onto a gurney. Through a blur, he saw a nurses’ station directly across from where the glass doors now slid open, the attendants hurrying the patient through.
David’s wheelchair stopped abruptly in
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