Not
. The MBTA platform at Downtown Crossing was so crowded, he got shoved off in front of an oncoming train. The conductor managed to stop just in time, but then Bill stumbled trying to get up and fell right on the third rail. This rubber raincoat kept him from becoming a crispy critter, and all he ended up with was a broken wrist.”
“You
can say ‘all he ended up with’ because it is not your wrist,” Elovitz remarked dryly.
“Why did the ER people ask for a cardiac consult?” Brian asked.
“Oh, partly because they just thought that anyone who fell on ten trillion volts ought to be checked over by us whether he conducted the electricity or not, and partly because he’s a Vasclear patient. One of the first, as a matter of fact.”
Brian’s interest perked up immediately.
“And you’re doing okay?” he asked.
“I don’t know about
your
okay,” Elovitz said, “but by
my
okay I’m okay. Now please. My wife is not well and she’s very worried about me. I’ve got to get home.”
Brian noted that the man took an extra breath or two during each sentence.
“Dyspnea?” he asked Phil.
“He’s in some early CHF,” Gianatasio replied, using the abbreviation for congestive heart failure—fluid building up in the lungs because of a weakened heart. “Listen, Bill. You’re a little short of breath. I don’t work in the Vasclear clinic anymore, but Dr. Holbrook does, and he would like to check you out. Could you call the clinic tomorrow and make an appointment to see him?”
Elovitz cocked his head and looked up at Brian.
“You’re a good doctor?” he asked.
“Pretty good,” Brian said. “Yes.”
“In that case, I’ll call. Thank you, Dr. Phil. Let’s go, dear.”
Before either physician could say a word, Mrs. Levine had wheeled her charge down the hall and around the corner.
“He’s cute,” Brian said. “How’s his ticker?”
“It needs some buffing up. I don’t do really good exams in the hallway on patients who are fully dressed and squirming to get out the door. That’s why I told him to arrange to see you. You might want to check with the Vasclear secretary in two days. If he hasn’t made an appointment, maybe we should call him. Now, let’s repair to the residents’ room. I want to know if Juicy Lucy came on to you or not.”
Twenty minutes later, Brian walked Phil out of the hospital and then returned to continue his orientation tour. Gianatasio was in no position to determine whetherWilhelm Elovitz was a treatment failure on Vasclear or whether his symptoms were due to factors other than hardening of the arteries. But he did make the point that Brian already knew well—while the drug had so far proved to be wildly successful by any standards, twenty-five percent of patients receiving it did not respond.
Brian wandered back to Boston Heart and made his way past the third-floor operating suite and the second-floor laboratories. Patient registration and the administrative offices were on the main floor, along with the regular cardiac clinic. The basement level housed the cardiac cath lab on one end and the animal maintenance facility on the other. In between them was a mechanized canteen. Brian suddenly realized he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast except Phil’s cake.
He picked the stairs nearest the cath lab and descended to the basement. Tomorrow morning he would be taking the same stairway down to scrub in on a cath case for the first time in a year and a half, and with Carolyn Jessup no less. The cath lab and the film library next door to it were locked, and the basement corridor was totally deserted, although there were lights on beyond the twin glass doors of the animal facility. He was approaching the small canteen when a man emerged carrying a small cardboard box with two coffees and some sandwiches. He was Brian’s height, or even a bit taller, but with a linebacker’s broad shoulders and narrow waist; small, dark eyes; high cheekbones; and
. The MBTA platform at Downtown Crossing was so crowded, he got shoved off in front of an oncoming train. The conductor managed to stop just in time, but then Bill stumbled trying to get up and fell right on the third rail. This rubber raincoat kept him from becoming a crispy critter, and all he ended up with was a broken wrist.”
“You
can say ‘all he ended up with’ because it is not your wrist,” Elovitz remarked dryly.
“Why did the ER people ask for a cardiac consult?” Brian asked.
“Oh, partly because they just thought that anyone who fell on ten trillion volts ought to be checked over by us whether he conducted the electricity or not, and partly because he’s a Vasclear patient. One of the first, as a matter of fact.”
Brian’s interest perked up immediately.
“And you’re doing okay?” he asked.
“I don’t know about
your
okay,” Elovitz said, “but by
my
okay I’m okay. Now please. My wife is not well and she’s very worried about me. I’ve got to get home.”
Brian noted that the man took an extra breath or two during each sentence.
“Dyspnea?” he asked Phil.
“He’s in some early CHF,” Gianatasio replied, using the abbreviation for congestive heart failure—fluid building up in the lungs because of a weakened heart. “Listen, Bill. You’re a little short of breath. I don’t work in the Vasclear clinic anymore, but Dr. Holbrook does, and he would like to check you out. Could you call the clinic tomorrow and make an appointment to see him?”
Elovitz cocked his head and looked up at Brian.
“You’re a good doctor?” he asked.
“Pretty good,” Brian said. “Yes.”
“In that case, I’ll call. Thank you, Dr. Phil. Let’s go, dear.”
Before either physician could say a word, Mrs. Levine had wheeled her charge down the hall and around the corner.
“He’s cute,” Brian said. “How’s his ticker?”
“It needs some buffing up. I don’t do really good exams in the hallway on patients who are fully dressed and squirming to get out the door. That’s why I told him to arrange to see you. You might want to check with the Vasclear secretary in two days. If he hasn’t made an appointment, maybe we should call him. Now, let’s repair to the residents’ room. I want to know if Juicy Lucy came on to you or not.”
Twenty minutes later, Brian walked Phil out of the hospital and then returned to continue his orientation tour. Gianatasio was in no position to determine whetherWilhelm Elovitz was a treatment failure on Vasclear or whether his symptoms were due to factors other than hardening of the arteries. But he did make the point that Brian already knew well—while the drug had so far proved to be wildly successful by any standards, twenty-five percent of patients receiving it did not respond.
Brian wandered back to Boston Heart and made his way past the third-floor operating suite and the second-floor laboratories. Patient registration and the administrative offices were on the main floor, along with the regular cardiac clinic. The basement level housed the cardiac cath lab on one end and the animal maintenance facility on the other. In between them was a mechanized canteen. Brian suddenly realized he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast except Phil’s cake.
He picked the stairs nearest the cath lab and descended to the basement. Tomorrow morning he would be taking the same stairway down to scrub in on a cath case for the first time in a year and a half, and with Carolyn Jessup no less. The cath lab and the film library next door to it were locked, and the basement corridor was totally deserted, although there were lights on beyond the twin glass doors of the animal facility. He was approaching the small canteen when a man emerged carrying a small cardboard box with two coffees and some sandwiches. He was Brian’s height, or even a bit taller, but with a linebacker’s broad shoulders and narrow waist; small, dark eyes; high cheekbones; and
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