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"Paging Dr Taylor". The nasally voice echoed down the white
corridors of Deerfield Municipal Hospital (just "Muni" to
the souls that worked there). The nasally voice repeated as the
staccato beeps from the pager blasted in unison.
Into the air, "All right, All right", and into the white
paging telephone, "this is Dr Taylor".
"Dr Taylor, where have you been? You need to come up to six
right away. Its little Sylvia."
"On my way".
Dr Pat Taylor was a living, breathing contradiction. Growing up in
Deerfield with grades and recommendations that could take you
anywhere. To Harvard, to Yale, and the full ride to Columbia wasn't
too shabby. Two years of residency in Boston, then duty's call. After
a stint in Desert Storm, sleeping in a tent and eating MRE's, it was
off to anywhere in the world. And anywhere just happened to be Muni.
Little Sylvia had been on sixth floor pediatrics for over a week. Her
mother brought her in with a case of pink-eye that would not respond
to antibiotics. Pat Taylor, needless to say, was the best
pediatric-opthomologist on staff at Deerfield Municipal, but actually
in the whole metro area and had already achieved a bit of a
reputation across the country. It was just last summer that the
keynote speech on surgical repair of the optic nerve in newborns drew
another personal invitation to reside and lecture at State Medical
school. "Why couldn't they just be happy to hear what I've been
working on? Why is it always more, more, more?", said the
nagging voice in Pat's head.
"You'd better let Brendan handle this one". Brendan was Dr
Brendan Foster, Pat's right hand specializing in internal medicines
and the crazy K-Mart full of new antibiotics and designer drugs. Pat
just tried to keep up in passing and to keep a sharp scalpel. Between
lasers and fiber optics, it was already too late to be a generalist.
"This one's in Brendan's court. The scarring is normal and we
don't need two doctors adjusting this little one's medications. Call
me if he wants a consult".
It was in the Saudi desert that Pat learned about the little tricks
that modern chemicals do the eye. A perfect machine that, if you
really get to know it, can only be explained the by presence of a
supreme being. Modern medicines cause miraculous regeneration, but it
was in the desert that toxins from the flea bites, the preventive
"injections" that each soldier was required to endure, and
the mysterious clouds that would waft by without warning (but be
followed with "official" declarations that nothing was
wrong) that showed Pat just how vulnerable the miraculous organ
really was. And now Deerfield had several Desert Storm veterans with
strange optic maladies. I wish there was a way to help people heal
without them first having to get so damn sick.
"Pat?", it was Dr Nimble, Muni's head of surgery, cursed to
spend his life hearing stupid jokes about his last name. "What
is it Dean?"
"I'm going to be out of town for the long week-end, heading up
to Boston for the GI conference. I was hoping I could count on you to
cover as acting director starting Thursday".
Pat couldn't hold back that trademark smirky smile that appeared
immediately after any unplanned good news. "What about Phil?".
"I'll worry about Phil. You worry about my patients. 'Acting
Director' is neither a birthright nor an entitlement around here. I
will count on you to rise above any comments about this and show me
what you are worth. Besides, I figure I better let you spread your
wings a little or one of these days you won't say no when my old
friend Dr Neeson calls you from the University. You should know that
you made an old man very sad when you said no."
"He'll get over it, when I show him the new procedure I've been
working on. And, Dean, thanks for asking".
"Paging Dr Taylor", it was the nasally voice again. Another
white phone, another "this is Doctor Taylor".
"Doctor Taylor, I have a call from a Miss Tiffany Taylor for
you, please hold." And with a second of silence and a
discernable click, it was a tiny voice from home.
"Mommy, guess what we did at school today..." |
