Doing Harm Read Online Free PDF Page B

medical advances that have occurred since I started medical school—face transplants and HIV wonder drugs and complex surgeries performed with robots through incisions no bigger than keyholes—I’ve often wondered why somebody hasn’t gotten around to designing a better hospital gown.
    Really. They’re the same everywhere I go. Flimsy and drafty and cold, sporting a hopelessly complex assortment of strings for tying it in place and characterized by the one reviled feature that remains the universal bane of all patients: a long open slit down the middle of the back running from neck to knees, corresponding to the vertical line at the exact center of the buttocks.
    So there Mr. Bernard quietly sits, on a gurney in one of the cubicles with his butt crack hanging out the back of his gown, behind a thin plastic curtain that looks and feels exactly like a shower curtain at a roadside motel and is meant to afford some modicum of privacy here in Grand Central to people waiting patiently for their surgeries. Mr. Bernard is muscular and wiry, with a thick mop of dark hair flecked with gray, and squints a lot after the pre-op nurses take his wire-rimmed glasses for safekeeping. Like rings on a tree stump, his face is etched with the deep lines of many summers spent working outdoors.
    We shake hands. His palm is sweaty and slick, and after I withdraw mine I have to resist the urge to wipe it off on my white coat. He’s not married and, unlike most of the other patients currently in the pre-op area who are surrounded by family members, is alone (“My girlfriend will be here later.” He shrugs without further explanation). We talk about the risks of the operation. I give him the usual reassurances: that this is a routine operation; that our safety record is excellent; that bad things almost never happen.
    I like him instantly. He’s amiable, sharp, and witty. He’s also very precise and asks a lot of surprisingly insightful questions for a carpenter. He seems satisfied with my responses. He signs the remaining paperwork, including the consent form that gives us permission to perform the operation, without even looking at what’s written on the paper.
    “I trust you,” he says simply. “After all, according to U.S. News and World Report, you guys are one of the best.”
    Once the anesthesia resident and I are done running through our routine preoperative checklist, we wheel Mr. Bernard into the operating room. We help him move off the gurney and onto the operating table. During this process, his gown accidentally slips off because of some ill-tied strings, and before the nurses or myself can react, he’s naked from the waist down.
    “Whoops. Sorry, everyone.” He laughs nervously. “Not much room for modesty around here, is there?”
    “No, Mr. Bernard, I’m afraid there’s not. No problem. Let me help you out there.” I take a blanket out of a steel warmer tucked in a corner of the room. The blanket radiates a pleasant heat that reminds me of fresh laundry taken out of a dryer.
    I bring the blanket over to Mr. Bernard, and, as I lay it across his abdomen, I’m startled to glimpse the words “DO NOT REMOVE” written in large, block letters in black ink on the shaft of his penis, running from up to down like a crossword puzzle.
    “Uh, Mr. Bernard?” I say. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but is that what I think it is written on your, you know…”
    “Yeah.” He chuckles with a sly grin. “It is. I’m glad you noticed it before you put me to sleep. I wanted to see your reaction.”
    “Can’t say I’ve seen that one before, Mr. Bernard,” I say, laughing. I relay the joke to the rest of the operating team, who laugh appreciatively.
    “Just wanted to make sure you people were all awake this morning.” He chuckles again.
    He lifts his head from the pillow and peers keenly at me over the top of the warming blanket as I adjust his feet on the operating table.
    “Hey, Dr. Mitchell. What’s your first