Trauma by Daniel Palmer

“I’ll explain everything then.”

 
    CHAPTER 14
    It felt like divine intervention to be going on rounds again. Carrie thrummed with excitement. A few days ago she had been listless on the couch, trolling Facebook and doing what her mother always advised against, comparing her insides to everybody’s outsides. But today she was back in a hospital, about to visit with patients, and feeling both curiosity and confidence return.
    Carrie had dressed professionally in a blue blouse and dark slacks, but felt a bit naked without a white coat. She reminded herself that she was here to observe, nothing more. So far.
    Patience—first things first. Let’s see what this DBS is all about.
    Carrie introduced herself to the receptionist. A few minutes later, a nurse took her into the neurology clinic. The aromas and sounds were instantly familiar, and she felt like a shipwreck survivor spotting dry land.
    Inside exam room eight, Carrie found Dr. Finley and an obviously married couple who appeared to be in their late sixties. The man seated on the examination table was heavyset, with a horseshoe head of hair, a weather-beaten face, and loose skin all around. Petite and well put together in a dress suitable for church, the woman kept her hands interlocked in front of her. Concern for her companion was etched on her face.
    Dr. Finley’s expression brightened on Carrie’s arrival.
    â€œDr. Bryant,” he said. “Let me introduce you. Donald and Nancy McCall, this is Dr. Carrie Bryant. She’s an accomplished neurosurgeon, visiting today to learn more about DBS.”
    The compliment boosted Carrie’s morale considerably. She was an accomplished neurosurgeon. Giving up on her career would do nothing to erase the damage she had accidently inflicted on poor Leon. Every day she would try and make penance. Surgery was and always would be her true calling. In the same way Howard Bryant double-checked each injection of phenobarbital, Carrie would take special care with presurgery preparations.
    Dr. Finley provided a brief patient history. Donald McCall had well-established Parkinson’s disease (PD), and had undergone a deep brain stimulation treatment twelve weeks earlier. Carrie observed the parallel scars on Donald’s scalp where cuts had been made to implant wires in his brain. A horizontal scar ran along the base of Donald’s neck, and a vertical one on his chest marked the pulse generator’s location. Those scars were harder to see. In time, they’d be nearly invisible. Carrie was amazed that so much technology could be so effectively concealed. Even a keen observer would have no idea Don McCall was one of the walking wired.
    â€œThis is Mr. McCall’s eighth visit to us,” said Dr. Finley. “We’re just fine-tuning the electrical settings.” He turned to Nancy. “Mrs. McCall, would you mind telling Dr. Bryant a little about the changes you’ve observed, before and after the implant?”
    Nancy sparked to life. “At first I thought Don was just depressed,” she said. “He stopped talking much, and when he spoke it was like there was no feeling, and his voice got soft.” Her own voice softened, as if in sympathy. “I can’t say he looked sad—more like he wasn’t there. And he started to stare at me for long periods, which was odd and made me uncomfortable. He slowed down, too. It was all very gradual, at first.
    â€œBut then he started falling, and my Don had always been so balanced. He used to play ice hockey in an adult league, and now he was stooping when he walked. Then his hand started shaking. A doctor put him on some sort of antidepressant, but that didn’t do anything. Don was only fifty-five, but he acted like a man in his eighties.”
    Carrie nodded. Nancy had her complete and undivided attention.
    â€œIt was no surprise when he lost his job at Home Depot,” Nancy went on. “I saw that