Miracle Cure Read Online Free PDF Page B

to this.”
    The easily heard humming sound, Brian was nearly certain, was a bruit—the noise of turbulence caused in this case, he believed, by blood rushing through a markedly overactive thyroid gland.
    “Pressure’s dropping,” Sherry Gordon said. “Ninety.”
    Phil listened for a few seconds.
    “I heard that sound when I first examined her, but I thought it was a murmur transmitted up from her heart.”
    “I don’t.”
    “Thyroid?”
    “I’m almost sure of it. I’ve only seen one case of thyroid storm in my life, but this looks just like it. High temp, wild pulse, coma, increasing stretches of V. tach.”
    Gianatasio listened to the sound again.
    “Could be,” he said excitedly. “Dammit all, it just could be. Fred, does this lady have any history of hyperthyroidism?”
    Fred Dixon flipped through his office notes and lab reports.
    “Eighty,” Sherry called out.
    “Well,” Dixon said, his voice a bit shaky, “I noted a slightly elevated thyroid level at the time of her physical ayear ago. But people her age get
underactive
thyroids, not overactive, and besides I didn’t think—”
    “Brian, where do we go from here?” Phil cut in.
    “Call an endocrinologist. But I would say in the meantime, massive doses of steroids, high doses of IV propranolol to block the effect of the hormone on her heart, and then some sort of specific chemical blockade of thyroid hormone production as well. The endocrinologist or a book can tell us what and how much.”
    “Let’s go with it,” Gianatasio said. “Ms. Benoit, find out who’s on for endocrine and get ’em down here or on the phone as quickly as possible. If it’s the phone, put Dr. Holbrook on. Then get over to the residents’ lounge, please, and get me Harrison’s
Principles of Internal Medicine
and the fattest endocrinology textbook you can find. If there’s none at least two inches thick, go to the library. The rest of you, listen up, please. We’re sailing into some uncharted waters.…”

 
CHAPTER THREE
    “N O AUTOGRAPHS . N O AUTOGRAPHS, PLEASE . I’ M SORRY , but Dr. Holbrook won’t be signing any more autographs today.”
    Fending off an imaginary crowd, Phil Gianatasio backed into room 6.
    Brian, alone in the room with Jack, watched from the bedside, amused.
    “If you don’t stop that shit,” he said, “I’m going to autograph that butt of yours.”
    “Ah, and what a butt it has become!” Gianatasio exclaimed, slapping himself on the behind. “A rhino rear. Hippo hindquarters. Magnificent! Why, you could sign your autograph and write your autobiography, and possibly still have room for a sonnet or two. God, Holbrook, what a save you just pulled off. What … a … save! Ol’ Violet hasn’t just dodged a bullet, she’s dodged a friggin’ howitzer shell!”
    “What’s going on?” Jack muttered, rousing from a Valium twilight.
    Jack hadn’t totally dodged his bullet, but it appeared he had suffered no more than a flesh wound. His initial blood tests had confirmed that, in fact, he had suffered a myocardial infarction—a coronary—although all indications were that the heart attack was a small one and not immediately life-threatening. But at sixty-three, with his history, Jack was definitely functioning on borrowed time.
    Even though Brian was thrilled over the Corcoran save, he remained determined to keep his feelings in check and to allow Gianatasio to display enough exuberance for both of them. He motioned Phil to sit down.
    “What’s the latest?” he asked.
    Gianatasio sank down gratefully.
    “The latest is that this guy just wandered down from the last row of the bleachers with the bases loaded and two outs in the bottom of the ninth inning and struck out the grim reaper on three pitches. That’s the latest.”
    Brian turned to his father.
    “Pop, this overgrown child here is Phil Gianatasio. You probably don’t remember, but we were residents together back in the dark ages.”
    “Of course I remember.