Do No Harm Read Online Free PDF Page B

Between the home's windows, vines of split-leaf philodendron snaked up the walls, the glossy dark-green leaves flapping in the breeze like atrophied wings. On the front lawn, two large palm trees crisscrossed like necking flamingos. Situated on Marlboro Street in Brentwood, David's house was a few blocks south of Sunset but still close enough that the occasional passing semi ever so slightly vibrated the paintings on the walls. The house seemed almost shy, set back a good twenty yards from the street.
    A blaring car horn in the distance awoke David at 5:30. He turned beneath his comforter, removing his earplugs and placing them in a nightstand drawer. He heard the traffic immediately, and wondered if there was a more effective brand of earplug that might rescue him from the all-hour sounds of Sunset Boulevard.
    His king-sized bed sat centered beneath a window that overlooked the thin side yard. No blinds or drapes dressed the window; he liked to awaken with the gathering sunlight. Aside from a solitary padded chair in the corner on which David hung his white coat, the room was entirely bare. He still slept on the right side of the bed--he'd never felt comfortable making the migration to the middle. The sheets on the left side remained almost perfectly smoothed. He found something immensely depressing about the blank strip of still-made bed beside which he slept every night.
    David reached for the phone immediately and dialed the ICU.
    "Yes, hello, Sheila. Dr. Spier here. We sent a woman upstairs yesterday, and I wanted to check in on her. Nancy Jenkins."
    "Oh." Sheila exhaled loudly. "What a thing. Such a sweet woman." The tone of her voice was not heartening. "She was doing better in the late evening," she continued. "She even regained consciousness and spoke briefly with some detectives, but then things went to hell in the middle of the night. Her temp shot up; we took a portable upright chest, saw she'd developed free air, and rushed her to the OR."
    Despite David's efforts, the alkali had won out. Dr. Woods's endoscopy yesterday evening had revealed that Nancy had sustained 3a grade esophageal injury. It had been a mess down in her throat. Exudates gooping the membranes, deep focal and circumferential ulcers, and black blisters of necrotic tissue, waiting to slough, heal over, or simply give way. One of the focal necrotic patches in her esophagus had finally blown out in the night, allowing air and infection to escape into her body.
    David swung his legs out of bed and rested his feet on the thin beige carpet, careful not to disturb the perfect pattern the cleaning lady's vacuum had left last Wednesday.
    "Unfortunately, Dr. Freedman had to do a subtotal resection of the esophagus," Sheila continued. "I believe he pulled up a segment of small bowel to replace it." She paused, and David heard a sheet rustling. "Small bowel?" she said. "Why not colon?"
    "The small bowel has more active peristalsis," David said.
    "Oh." He could hear the nurse breathing during the long pause. "We did everything we could," she said, more sadly than defensively. "As you know, everyone's really following her closely. I've had more phone calls checking up on her. Nurses, lab techs, docs, reporters calling every five minutes . . . " When she spoke again, the sharp anger in her voice startled David. "What kind of a bastard does a thing like this?"
    "Well," David said, letting the hypothetical question hang and fade, "I'm glad she's in your hands now."
    "Yeah . . . " Sheila sighed again, and David heard the phone rustling against her cheek. "To tell you the truth, Doctor, I'm getting tired of giving out bad news on this one. Dispensing misery is a tough way to make a living."
    He rubbed one eye with the heel of a hand. "Pretend you're an IRS agent."
    Her laugh was soft, but genuine. He said good-bye and hung up the phone, then stared at it for a moment. Three minutes into Monday, and he already felt like shit.
    By now, with all he'd seen, perhaps he