give them your antibiotic
du jour?
â
âThey donât do ivs here. Against nursing council policies. No trained staff, no supplies.â
âSorry, man. The dean, the CEO, and the VP Patient Services are all over us on this one. We gotta keep the beds clear for our elective hips and knees. And the new pancreas program.â
The mandatory targets for hip and knee replacements, imposed by the Minister of Health, were sore points with everyone except the orthopedic surgeons who were putting new joints into vote-rich baby boomers. And the pancreatic islet-cell transplant program was the universityâs brand new poster child. Everywhere you looked there were ads asking the public for donations to
Help Cure Diabetes, the Epidemic of Our Age
. Pancreatic transplantation was a high-tech initiative, and purportedly revenue neutral: curing diabetes would stop the need for dialysis units filled with diabetes-induced kidney failure. Caledonian University was in a race with the University of Alberta to develop a slick, fail-safe transplant procedure that didnât require patients to take toxic anti-rejection drugs for the rest of their lives. Everyone knew that at least one Nobel Prize was on the line. A cure for diabetes would be huge.
âSo what am I supposed to do with these people?â Hamish said. âLet them go into shock and die?â In almost every other country on the planet, there would be a private hospital down the street he could transfer them to. But not in Canada. In 1984 â had the irony attached to that year dawned on the countryâs politicians? â big-brother government had outlawed private health care, except for cosmetic procedures. When Canadians got sick, they got government-issue health care or nothing â unless they were rich and could make it to the States.
âTell you what,â Jeff said. âIâll send you a taxi filled with all the IV stuff you need. You find someone to look after the infusions. Here â Iâll pass you on to the unit clerk. Tell her what you need.â
Hamish looked around the Mountain Wingâs nursing station in disbelief. Was he actually going to turn this place into an acute-care ward? Heâd need backup. He couldnât manage a ward full of IV drips, day and night, for who knows how long, by himself. Jamiesonâs on-call replacement, Dr. Awad, wasnât going to be any help: Hamish had paged him three times last night, intending to tell him about Betty, but Awad had never answered. It was probably just as well, he figured. An office GP couldnât be expected to know much about septic shock, toxic megacolon, and running IVs.
One way or another, heâd have to handle this mess himself.
But sooner or later, if no one found the source of the gastro, the effluvium was going to hit the fan in the Belvedere Wing, and they all might need IVs.
CHAPTER 11
At eleven oâclock Sunday morning, Natasha stood in the front lobby of Camelot Lodge rubbing hand sanitizer between her fingers. Sheâd asked Maria, the anxious receptionist, to page Mrs. Oliveira. The buzz in the common room was subdued compared to last week. Fewer residents than usual were chatting on the sofas, their cardigans fastened tight across their chests. Two women stared intently at their half-complete jigsaw puzzle. Snow-capped mountains, Banff or Lake Louise, were emerging from the jumbled pieces. Dr. Zol had made it clear that Camelotâs no-visitors status didnât mean no socializing among the residents, but there was no mistaking the pall of dread on every face.
It was hard to believe that nearly a week had passed since last Tuesday when she and Dr. Zol had inspected the kitchen. And still nothing to explain the cause or source of eight weeks of febrile gastroenteritis. Perhaps, she decided, Colleen was on to something. Those large bags in the deep-freeze could be leftovers diverted from shelters and charities. She shivered at
du jour?
â
âThey donât do ivs here. Against nursing council policies. No trained staff, no supplies.â
âSorry, man. The dean, the CEO, and the VP Patient Services are all over us on this one. We gotta keep the beds clear for our elective hips and knees. And the new pancreas program.â
The mandatory targets for hip and knee replacements, imposed by the Minister of Health, were sore points with everyone except the orthopedic surgeons who were putting new joints into vote-rich baby boomers. And the pancreatic islet-cell transplant program was the universityâs brand new poster child. Everywhere you looked there were ads asking the public for donations to
Help Cure Diabetes, the Epidemic of Our Age
. Pancreatic transplantation was a high-tech initiative, and purportedly revenue neutral: curing diabetes would stop the need for dialysis units filled with diabetes-induced kidney failure. Caledonian University was in a race with the University of Alberta to develop a slick, fail-safe transplant procedure that didnât require patients to take toxic anti-rejection drugs for the rest of their lives. Everyone knew that at least one Nobel Prize was on the line. A cure for diabetes would be huge.
âSo what am I supposed to do with these people?â Hamish said. âLet them go into shock and die?â In almost every other country on the planet, there would be a private hospital down the street he could transfer them to. But not in Canada. In 1984 â had the irony attached to that year dawned on the countryâs politicians? â big-brother government had outlawed private health care, except for cosmetic procedures. When Canadians got sick, they got government-issue health care or nothing â unless they were rich and could make it to the States.
âTell you what,â Jeff said. âIâll send you a taxi filled with all the IV stuff you need. You find someone to look after the infusions. Here â Iâll pass you on to the unit clerk. Tell her what you need.â
Hamish looked around the Mountain Wingâs nursing station in disbelief. Was he actually going to turn this place into an acute-care ward? Heâd need backup. He couldnât manage a ward full of IV drips, day and night, for who knows how long, by himself. Jamiesonâs on-call replacement, Dr. Awad, wasnât going to be any help: Hamish had paged him three times last night, intending to tell him about Betty, but Awad had never answered. It was probably just as well, he figured. An office GP couldnât be expected to know much about septic shock, toxic megacolon, and running IVs.
One way or another, heâd have to handle this mess himself.
But sooner or later, if no one found the source of the gastro, the effluvium was going to hit the fan in the Belvedere Wing, and they all might need IVs.
CHAPTER 11
At eleven oâclock Sunday morning, Natasha stood in the front lobby of Camelot Lodge rubbing hand sanitizer between her fingers. Sheâd asked Maria, the anxious receptionist, to page Mrs. Oliveira. The buzz in the common room was subdued compared to last week. Fewer residents than usual were chatting on the sofas, their cardigans fastened tight across their chests. Two women stared intently at their half-complete jigsaw puzzle. Snow-capped mountains, Banff or Lake Louise, were emerging from the jumbled pieces. Dr. Zol had made it clear that Camelotâs no-visitors status didnât mean no socializing among the residents, but there was no mistaking the pall of dread on every face.
It was hard to believe that nearly a week had passed since last Tuesday when she and Dr. Zol had inspected the kitchen. And still nothing to explain the cause or source of eight weeks of febrile gastroenteritis. Perhaps, she decided, Colleen was on to something. Those large bags in the deep-freeze could be leftovers diverted from shelters and charities. She shivered at
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