Chargement
Trouvez votre prochain book favori
Devenez membre aujourd'hui et lisez gratuitement pendant 30 joursCommencez vos 30 jours gratuitsInformations sur le livre
Organs of Greed
De A. A. Fowler
Actions du livre
Commencer à lireLongueur: 491 pages6 heures
- Éditeur:
- A. A. Fowler
- Sortie:
- Sep 24, 2013
- ISBN:
- 9780615860848
- Format:
- Livre
Description
Where will it all end? What happens when the overheated medical market place of the 21st century drives runaway technology and rushed advances in drug development? Doctor Steven Fisher, a prominent heart transplant surgeon, gets a full dose of the possibilities as he races to crack open a secret conspiracy. Fighting for his life and fighting against time, Fisher confronts the treacherous scheme to
Informations sur le livre
Organs of Greed
De A. A. Fowler
Longueur: 491 pages6 heures
Description
Where will it all end? What happens when the overheated medical market place of the 21st century drives runaway technology and rushed advances in drug development? Doctor Steven Fisher, a prominent heart transplant surgeon, gets a full dose of the possibilities as he races to crack open a secret conspiracy. Fighting for his life and fighting against time, Fisher confronts the treacherous scheme to
- Éditeur:
- A. A. Fowler
- Sortie:
- Sep 24, 2013
- ISBN:
- 9780615860848
- Format:
- Livre
À propos de l'auteur
AA Fowler is a physician. For over 40 years he has been actively been engaged in patient care and research. He has published more than 300 medical research publications. His laboratory continues to delve into the mysteries of acute lung injury.
En rapport avec Organs of Greed
Aperçu du livre
Organs of Greed - A. A. Fowler
medicine.
PROLOGUE
January 31
Cold fingers tugged on the stiffened shoe.
Damn foot’s going to fall off,
the woman rasped.
A fissured face, cracked and weathered by the cold, raised from its perch. Tired eyes glanced about. The warmth and comfort brought by a bottle of wine had long since passed, and the woman had become offended by the odor of rain-soaked garbage littered around her cardboard house.
Got to get some blood moving through that foot. Can’t keep sitting here while the thing freezes.
Icy wind that howled past her makeshift shelter and the roar of the Caton River were the only sounds she heard. The city was quiet. Bitter cold kept it that way at night.
She gazed out at the city across the river. The few friends she knew would be searching for shelter. They, too, would find it tough to come by as the city turned the homeless away from overcrowded shelters. Many had sought safe haven in a vacant factory building down river, until a fire there had killed many.
She replayed her memory of that fire as wet walls sagged around her. She was in the old factory that night, seeking protection from the cold, hoping to find food. She had little recollection, recalling only her panicked dash away from the flames. Muffled cries of those trapped inside the blaze still haunted her.
Tears welled up as she stared through sleepless eyes. So many years she had struggled to free her mind of the voices, voices no one understood — sometimes friendly, sometimes comforting, sometimes maddening. Recently, they spoke more clearly. Still, none of her friends heard them.
Unexpectedly, her waterlogged box collapsed, folding in around her. She jerked back from her thoughts.
Got to get my ass moving.
With much effort she stood, steadied herself against a gust of wind and reached for a small wire cart lying beside her. She then began hobbling towards the access road that led under the Ninth Street Bridge.
City lights illuminating a low cloud cover painted the night a ghostly orange-blue as she approached a sharp bend in the road. A few pin pricks of sensation gave a bit of assurance that her left foot wasn’t completely frozen.
She struggled with the cart, towing it through the icy mud. Occasionally she paused and glanced up the access road, to keep her bearings as she ambled. Suddenly, though, she became aware of new images up ahead.
What the hell is that?
she moaned to herself
She stared a moment, at first unconcerned. Strange things happened on the streets. She had seen many over the years. Turn your head, look the other way, and keep going, she told herself. She struggled on farther, glancing occasionally towards the city street.
The images had now become clearer. She stopped again. A sliver of fear crawled through her chest. The blurry silhouettes she’d seen before turned out to be three large men standing beside a darkened automobile.
There was silence for a moment — then a voice.
That you, Mattie?
The sound of the voice cut through the frigid air slicing into her brain.
Her heart pounded as sweat oozed onto her hands. She turned and headed back towards her cardboard home, her legs weakened by fear.
Wrong way, Mattie.
That voice, it’s familiar, she thought, as she struggled through the slush.
We have a little deal to settle, don’t we, Mattie?
Fighting to keep panic from seizing her mind, she released the cart.
That voice. Why did she know that voice?
Fear loosened the cobwebs in her brain as she limped away from the figures. If she could make it to her campsite under the bridge, she would know where to hide.
Don’t wait too long,
a voice whispered. What’s the range of that thing, anyway?
Beside the whispering figure, a muted click was heard. The night scope atop the rifle splashed a milky-green light across a marksman’s eyes as he aimed downrange. Through the sight, the woman’s tattered clothing was sharp and clear. A wire cart was visible ten yards behind her.
Stop your fucking chitchat and give me some space.
The marksman elbowed the man next to him. I’m accurate to at least a hundred yards.
The feeling in the woman’s foot had not returned, but her gait had become more rhythmic. Her thoughts came easier as she approached the turn that led under the bridge. A plan formed as she examined her options. She would reach the camp, melt into the surrounding brush and escape down river. I’ll be safe, she told herself.
Behind her, a soft thud rose above the wind. Her mind had only begun processing the noise, when the dart struck her at mid-thigh.
Searing pain filled her consciousness as the force of the impact threw her off balance. She fell forward into the slush, twisting her body to grope for the source of the pain. Her struggles were in vain. Powerful chemicals had entered her body.
Warmth, she thought. Warmth was everywhere. Her nightmare was put on hold as the powerful narcotic surged into her brain. Relax came the drug’s directive.
For a few moments, calm flowed through her weathered body, and she floated.
Soon, however, fear jolted her mind again. My arm, she thought, ripping away from the short-lived trance. She struggled to a sitting position, her body growing heavier as the moments passed. She wanted to scream, but her voice wouldn’t respond.
Heavy, so heavy. Can’t anybody see I’m dying?
The paralytic agent completed its work, and she fell forward, her face striking the icy mud. She was down, motionless, paralyzed. The drugs produced a suspended animation, leaving her aware of her surroundings, yet unable to respond to them. She heard the rhythmic clicking sound and the approaching voices.
They are coming! That clicking! Why was it familiar?
The voice she recognized before she fled followed close behind the clicking. She tried to think as her mind teetered on the brink of unconsciousness. Her efforts were useless. She remembered no more as she succumbed.
She’s down.
A shadowy figure approached and knelt beside the woman lying still on the road. With a quick motion, a glove was removed, and fingers probed her neck.
She’s alive. She’s bradycardic, but she’ll do,
he noted in guttural dialect.
Don’t talk that medical gibberish shit.
The voice came from ten feet away. The marksman was approaching. Keep that crap to yourself.
Her heart’s beating slowly,
the kneeling man remitted meekly. An almost imperceptible expression of scorn crossed his dark face. He knew the marksman would never see it.
Idiots. Bring the car down, and be careful putting her in.
The rhythmic snapping sounded again as the kneeling man stood and headed for the car a hundred yards away.
CHAPTER ONE
Are we ready yet?
No response.
In the near darkness of the room, the surgeon reached to the collar of his scrub shirt, felt the metal edges of the small microphone clipped there and adjusted it slightly.
Are we ready yet?
The commanding tone reeked of impatience. I don’t have all day.
Almost ready,
a voice replied over the small speaker positioned behind the surgeon’s shoulder. Anesthesia induction is proceeding nicely.
Then I can begin system initiation?
His voice still contained an impatient edge.
No reply.
Shit,
he whispered behind clinched teeth, careful not to be overheard. What a fucking inconvenience, sitting here wasting my day off while . . . .
Okay to initiate,
the voice crackled from the speaker.
Fucking finally.
He swiveled his chair toward a flat panel screen containing an array of lighted instrumentation.
In the center of the panel, two rows of pressure-sensitive icons glowed muted yellow. From where he sat, a transilluminated label TELEPRESENCE was visible on the monitor. With a light touch, he pushed icons starting with the top row from left to right. Pale yellow turned to bright green as he worked.
At once, a large disk drive emitted its familiar whine. Program initiation had begun.
Satisfied all programs had come online, the impatient surgeon rotated the chair toward a cubicle adjacent to the screen. The curious structure, suspended at waist height, measured nearly three feet on each side and opened on a single side. Its interior was dark. By reflex, he reached below the armrest, pressing two buttons that controlled preset adjustments. The seat and back inflated, molding the chair to his body. Slowly, the chair moved forward, inclining slightly to lift his feet off the carpet. He felt the pressure of footrests as they rose from the floor. Once the chair was fully adjusted, a familiar floating sensation surrounded him.
Lying directly in front of him on the surface of the enclosure, the virtual hood spilled its low intensity light. He picked it up and placed it on his head bringing two small viewing screens comfortably before his eyes. A continuous series of numbers and mathematical formulas associated with final system checks raced across the lower third of the screens. The flow of numbers and formulas were meaningless to the surgeon. As always he was there merely to operate. Within moments, a virtual surgical field appeared. He inspected it with the same critical eye he would apply if the patient was physically present.
We’re looking good from here.
A more relaxed tone crept into his voice. Placing the hood on and seeing the surgical field before him always had a calming effect.
The voice flowed from the speaker. Anesthesia is complete. I await your directions.
Good. Move the nephrectomy frame into position and lock it into place.
The surgeon fidgeted as he waited for a response.
Nephrectomy frame in place and secure,
the voice replied.
Very well.
He slid his arms forward. They moved no more than four inches before his hands contacted the supple leather of the controller gloves, exactly where he had left them before. One at a time, he slipped on the gloves and adjusted his upper body in the molded chair until he was comfortable.
Activate nephrectomy frame and power up the laser.
Activated. You’re online.
The surgeon moved the index finger of the right glove away from his other fingers. A virtual menu appeared suspended in the space above the cartoon-like surgical field before him. The menu listed an array of instruments from which he could choose. He reached forward in space, his index finger extended until he touched the third option: laser. The laser option flashed three times and the menu disappeared.
He spoke softly into the microphone. Adjust the laser to cutting and coagulation at five hundred-fifty.
Five hundred-fifty set.
Positioning the virtual laser beside the spine, the surgeon made a sweeping arc-like movement with his gloved hand. The right flank of the nameless individual sharing his virtual world opened in a bloodless manner, displaying the tissue below a small layer of adipose.
He worked quickly, virtually placing retractors to open the flank. A brief blunt dissection followed, and then he went back to the laser. Within ten minutes, the kidney came into view. The surgeon worked quickly, freeing the organ from its surrounding fat and anatomic structures. He placed vascular clips on the kidney’s arterial and venous supply and severed them. Next, he clipped and cut the ureter. Another index finger movement, and the menu appeared again. He pointed to the choice: finger/grabber. Into the field appeared a mechanical hand. Using swift and certain movements with the controller glove, the surgeon saw the mechanical hand reach into the deep wound and retrieve the kidney. A pair of gloved hands appeared in the screen holding a green plastic bowl. The grabber gently released the kidney. Less than twenty minutes had passed.
The surgeon inspected the wound ensuring no bleeding sites had escaped his attention. Satisfied, he said, Lay a sterile cover over the wound. Infuse fifty-thousand units of GrowStimulin now and again at eight hours. The client should be able to leave at that point.
Yes sir,
the voice replied. All vital signs stable.
Good.
He removed the gloves and hood and placed them down carefully. With his left hand, he located the chair’s adjustment switch and pressed it. A muted hiss followed as the chair decompressed, loosening its grip on his torso. The surgeon turned to the panel and pressed a bright blue switch labeled auto-shutdown. The whine of the massive drive changed frequency as their RPMs fell.
He stood and looked at the faint glow of his wristwatch.
Jesus.
He was late for his scheduled tee-time at the club.
He was about to open the door to the small room when paused and returned to the console. He reached into his pocket and struggled to pull out a ring that held a number of keys. Identifying the one he wanted, he opened a drawer, took out a small ledger and shoved the drawer shut with his knee. He glanced at his watch again.
Shit.
He sat and hurriedly recorded the procedure. When he had finished, he stood and fumbled for the key ring once again but then stopped.
Screw it.
He tossed the ledger on top of the console and quietly slipped out, locking the door behind.
CHAPTER TWO
February 1
A brilliant sun lit the day. Fluorescent red and orange leaves loosened by gentle breezes journeyed towards earth. Rays of sunshine pierced through the fiery canopy of a large maple tree.
An attractive woman dressed in denim jeans kneeled to pluck stalks of clover.
Wait, please wait. I’m coming,
a voice pleaded.
The woman stood and glanced in the direction of the voice. Recognition crisscrossed her face with lines of worry.
She turned and walked away, passing under the canopy. Unexpectedly, a breeze whipped up fallen leaves, obscuring her departure.
Then it came — an annoying little sound. When it began it was far away, out of sight.
At first indistinct and out of the reaches of conscious thought, the noise soon became more distinct, an incessant chattering. It destroyed the moment, the pleasure of the breeze, the sky.
Chatter, chatter, chatter. The interruption spoiled the entire afternoon.
Wait. It was a ringing, not chattering.
Over and over the ringing became louder and more striking, each time the bells sounded.
Without warning, all remnants of the day were shattered, as if painted on a plate-glass canvas.
Then there was darkness — the peaceful day destroyed.
The noise didn’t stop with the destruction of the day. The intrusive ringing broke the silence.
Ring! Ring!
Ring! Ring!
Doctor Steven Fisher sat bolt upright, disoriented, awakened from a deep sleep.
Ring! Ring!
Ring! Ring!
On a rickety table beside his bed, the telephone wailed.
His heart raced and his head pounded from the surprise. By automatic behavior, Fisher stroked his fingers through his hair. Beads of cold sweat were there.
Still only half oriented, he thrust his hand at the sound and groped. His hands trembled as he struggled in the darkness.
Finally, he secured the receiver with a death grip and hauled the instrument to his mouth.
Hello.
Fisher’s response resembled a whisper.
Is this Dr. Fisher?
The voice poured from the receiver.
He jerked the receiver away from his ear.
Yes,
Fisher responded, not completely awake.
Dr. Fisher, this is the Medford University Hospital operator.
The voice ascended and descended pitch like a pianist rolling up and down the scales of a piano.
Dr. Binzemore in Medford Trauma would like to speak with you.
Who wants me?
Fisher continued to struggle with who and where he was.
Ignoring Fisher’s question, the hospital operator carried right on. Dr. Fisher, shall I connect you?
A long pause ensued. Fisher glanced around the bedroom of his apartment. Soft blue numbers on the bedside clock displayed the time as one 1:45 a.m. The clock display cast a pale blue light on a half empty bottle that, five hours earlier had been a fifth of Jack Daniels whiskey.
Dr. Fisher, shall I connect you?
The voice was growing impatient.
Finally, Fisher pulled out of his disorientation and replied firmly, No, I’ll call back.
He replaced the telephone onto its receiver and rotated to a sitting position, his feet fumbling for the floor. His head and the knot of brown hair above it immediately sought the cradle of his hands. The reality of the situation was driving its way into his foggy mind.
He was Steven Fisher, Associate Professor of Surgery and a transplant surgeon, and he was hung over. His mouth was parched, and his head pounded.
The dream. Again, the same dream, he thought. It was not the first time he’d been troubled by his dreams. After Iraq, recurrent dreams drove him to the brink of insanity.
He picked up the receiver again. Feeling the key pad in the dark, he punched the last button on the top. The phone’s speed-dial feature routed the call to Medford University Emergency Department.
Medford Trauma,
a youthful voice answered after a single ring.
Fisher fought to stay upright while holding the telephone to his ear. He spoke with his best effort. Dr. Binzemore, please. Dr. Fisher returning his call.
Alan Binzemore, a fifth-year surgical resident, assigned to the Cardiac Transplant Service, was one of Medford University’s finest.
After a brief delay, Binzemore came on the line. Dr. Fisher?
Binzemore’s voice, though considerably softer than the operator’s, resounded inside Fisher’s hung-over brain.
We’ve got a heart for Patricia Bingham. Medford Neurosurgery contacted OrganLink. They have an eighteen-year-old donor with a gunshot wound to the head. The parents consented to let his organs go. Father’s a banker at one of Richland’s big banks. He and the mother want it done quickly.
Binzemore halted his verbal bombardment momentarily and awaited a reply. When none was forthcoming, he continued. The boy is out of surgery, but he’s shocky. Dr. Nuncio from Neurosurgery said they almost lost him twice during exploratory craniotomy, but both times they got him back. Unofficially, the bullet tore into the left side of his head, massively damaging the left half of his brain. The neuro team’s got vasopressors running, but his blood pressure’s only hanging around one-hundred systolic. From what they’re saying, we’ve got a small window of time to get in there and get the heart before his body goes, Dr. Fisher.
Binzemore’s rapid-fire recitation slowly turned the cogwheels of Fisher’s mind. Thinking was painful. Did he get HIV tested and hepatitis screened?
was Fisher’s first attempt at a relevant question.
Yes. I think the neurosurgeons never expected the kid to survive. Organ donation was in the back of their minds from the start. HIV testing and hepatitis screening was done when the kid first landed at Medford Trauma. The tests are back. He’s negatve for all.
That’s good.
Look, I’m heading up to get him settled in the donor OR. When can we expect you?
Fisher fought back the painful pulsations in his head. I’ll be there shortly, forty minutes, maybe.
Dr. Fisher, you okay?
Fine, Alan,
Fisher lied. I’m fine. Just get up there before he dies. I’ll be there soon. What’s going to happen to the other organs? Going to be any takers?
Yeah, maybe, but the kid’s so unstable the other transplant teams may not make it, unless they hurry. We’re lucky Mrs. Bingham stayed in town. Transplant coordinator says she’s on the way here. If she’d returned to Florida, the heart would most certainly have gone to Taggart Memorial. As it is, they’ve already called here claiming rights to the heart.
Right.
He replaced the phone in its cradle.
For a moment, Fisher sat in the quiet darkness of the apartment he had occupied for a month and a half. Six weeks since leaving Sharon, he thought. God, it felt like six years.
Although the fright produced by the phone call had passed, Fisher’s head still pounded from his alcoholic depravity of the night before. He had not expected the early morning call. In fact, he had not planned to be at Medford the entire next day, but Fisher was the last Medford University surgeon performing heart transplantation, since Chip Carlton’s unexpected departure six months earlier.
He stood, rickety and off balance, shielded his eyes, and reached to switch on the bedside light. The bedroom was a scene of chaos. Everywhere clothes were scattered in untidy piles. Boxes lay opened with articles hanging half in, half out. The bed resembled a battleground. Sheets and spread were knotted and no pillow was in sight.
With an unsteady gait, Fisher stepped towards the bathroom, where he flipped the wall switch.
The bathroom light further revealed a sparsely furnished bedroom. Perched atop a cheap wooden dresser along the opposite wall sat a framed photograph. The woman’s long blond hair, pulled back tightly behind her head, framed high pink cheek bones, a sharp nose and blazingly blue eyes. Colorful fallen leaves littered the background. The woman, clad in denim jeans and an oversized sweatshirt emblazoned with a Stanford University logo, gazed upwards.
Adjacent to the bedroom, in the kitchen-living room area, counter tops and floors were littered with beer cans and pizza boxes. Unwashed plates filled the sink.
The living room, connected to the kitchen by an archway, contained a small flat screen television that sat on the floor next to a single chair. Past issues of the American Journal of Surgery and the New England Journal of Medicine were piled on the floor next to the chair. The stack appeared unsteady and ready to topple onto old copies of the Richland Tribune that lay nearby. A brass pharmacy light left burning all night stood beside the chair. Empty beer cans were scattered about.
Five minutes passed before Fisher moved his body out of the path of the stinging hot water. As the searing heat of the shower warmed him, he found the after effect of the booze hard to shake.
At forty-seven, Fisher’s six-foot frame had remained well-muscled with little flab, despite a chronic lack of exercise and recent heavy alcohol use. Until six weeks earlier he had used early mornings for jogging. As bad as a surgeon’s weekly hospital schedule was, Fisher had managed to stay well-conditioned. Leaving Sharon had changed that. He stopped running. Unwittingly, he recoiled inward. He spent more and more time alone in introspection. And, after years on the wagon, he picked up the booze again. He kept telling himself it wasn’t like before. It was different, not like the months after Danny was killed.
Knowing he had to move, he finally grabbed the soap. Before leaving the shower, he swung the handle leftward. The cold blast proved to be the final boost he needed to snap his mind and body to full wakefulness.
Thank God, he thought climbing out.
At two fifteen, Fisher stepped out from the chaos of apartment number three and walked cautiously down the dimly lit sidewalk in front of the first floor apartments.
He almost stumbled, making the turn that led to the microscopic parking. This place is such cheap shit. Not a fucking light anywhere, he thought, realizing again how much he hated the place.
He had rented the apartment because of its proximity to Medford, expecting it to be temporary. As the arguments with Sharon became worse and her lies became more obvious, he had to leave. The night he left, there had been tears, anger and argument. She was trying to . . . .
Stop, he thought. As it always did, his mind put the brakes on. Can’t think of this now, got to stay focused. Got to operate,
he muttered to himself.
The small, gravel parking area was dark. Although the night was cloudless, leafless giant oak trees shrouded the cluster of cars in front of Fisher’s not-so-ritzy apartment complex. The whole situation left no light to navigate the area he had come to detest. Luckily, his car was close.
The Mazda rotary engine roared to life, and he swung the car out of the depressing complex. He headed for the winding road that hugged the Caton River as it traveled toward Richland. Turning onto River Path Drive, he momentarily broke out from under the thick grove of oak trees that covered the river bank. The half-light of a crescent moon glowed down onto nests of craggy boulders jutting up through the twisting river. River Path Drive was equally twisting, demanding careful coordination to navigate its course.
Fisher’s vintage Mazda RX-7 sported a five-speed manual transmission and possessed significant power. Mix together a concoction of endless right and left turns sprinkled liberally with the bountiful gear changes needed to negotiate that section of road and one had a useful medicinal agent that could effectively treat any hangover. Up and down, switch back right, switch back left, the squeal of tires. As he drove, Fisher felt his arm and trunk muscles, tight from hours of inactivity, loosening. He loved the challenge of River Path’s roller coaster ride.
Indian Promontory, the sign read, as Fisher approached one of the river’s most turbulent sections. The road, mostly level as it ran along the river, climbed precipitously with about one hundred fifty yards of straight asphalt leading to the Promontory. Finally, it swung back right into a hairpin as it turned out of the trees.
Fisher drove to the shoulder of Indian Promontory and stopped. He opened the door, rose slowly out of the warmth, and walked near the precipice. He looked down at the boiling rapids of the Caton River three hundred feet below.
The cold of the February morning enveloped him as he watched the water dance in the moonlight. Within a few moments, Fisher started to shiver, but he lingered a bit longer. Stopping on the Promontory always helped clear his mind.
From where he stood, Richland’s twinkling skyline was easily visible. He stared at the display. His head pounded less, but the constant aching and emptiness inside could not be shaken. His marriage of ten years had unraveled. He felt helpless and alone. He had left his comfortable house in the Richland suburbs for a rat hole apartment to cool off — to think things through. Six weeks had gone by and he was no closer to resolving his differences with Sharon than when he left.
Shit,
he uttered aloud. He turned and walked back to the Mazda. There wasn’t time to think things out. There was never enough time. The tires squealed as he accelerated away from Indian Promontory.
The road soon became less demanding as the river approached Richland. Around a last sharp bend, the twinkling lights of the Richland skyline became visible again. The drive along River Path had produced its desired effect. The wheels of Fisher’s mind were turning a bit faster. He had successfully suppressed painful thoughts of Sharon, but his attempts at mind control and concentration recently had been poor.
In support of the deficient concentration theory, Fisher’s musings unpredictably changed gears. From out of the recesses of his mind thoughts of the Med bubbled to the surface. The Med,
he snorted out loud.
The Med, as Medford University was known by its devotees, was in trouble. Its lifeblood and that of virtually all sister medical universities was draining as American health care changed at an ever-quickening pace.
Like many surgeons, he worked long hours, at times going weeks without reading a newspaper or hearing the news. Like most doctors, Fisher was not politically savvy. But, the reasons for the Med’s problems had become all too clear. Healthcare reform had devastated academic medicine. It had transformed the practice of medicine into a seething, heated, competitive market creating forces that dragged down American medical universities. Traditional medical schools like Medford University failed to compete for dollars with America’s slick, for-profit hospitals. As medical schools struggled for survival, corporations like Health Pursuit, America’s largest for-profit hospital corporation, spent hundreds of millions on acquisitions, mergers and persuasive advertising. Their dominance of the medical marketplace of the twenty-first century was, in essence, guaranteed.
The transmission whined loudly as Fisher shifted to lower gears to negotiate an approaching turn. The bridge over the Caton loomed ahead and River Path Drive was ending. After a sharp turn to swing onto the bridge, he headed over the rapids of Caton River toward Richland.
Such a coincidence, he mused as he completed the brief river crossing. There it stands,
he uttered, peering out the RX-7’s window.
Taggart Memorial Hospital. America’s sparkling monument to medical capitalism, he thought.
Standing out on the gentle slope that descended from the west down to Richland was the new sum and substance of America’s healthcare system. Brightly lighted against the backdrop of a charcoal sky, Taggart Memorial Hospital was resplendent.
Taggart’s got to be one of Health Pursuit’s shining gems, Fisher quipped to himself. They’ve hired away more than a quarter of Medford University’s doctors in the past five years.
He recalled a comment at a recent faculty meeting. Someone joked that Taggart was rapidly becoming Medford West.
He couldn’t remember the author of that statement, but he vividly recalled that no one had chuckled when it was voiced.
Fisher didn’t concentrate on the highly illuminated building as he rode by. He didn’t care to give the place undue attention. Predictably though, the traffic light in front of Taggart Memorial turned red as he approached. For the better part of a minute, he was stuck sitting in front of the complex. As he waited, Fisher’s thoughts jumped again. The image of Chip Carlton’s face appeared in his mind.
Why did you do it, Chip?
Fisher whispered.
He turned and looked at the brightly lighted group of buildings.
Chip Carlton, his friend and colleague for five years, had resigned his position on Medford’s cardiac transplant team to go to Taggart Memorial. Carlton’s absence was also part of his problem, he was convinced. Six months had passed since he had joined the heart transplant program at Taggart. Fisher’s life had not been the same.
His gaze roved across the reflective glass atrium in front of Taggart’s entry. Chip had left the Med for the identical reason given by other Medford faculty who had gone before him: money.
Somewhere in his belly a lead weight rolled over at the thought. Fisher stared straight ahead again. When the light changed, he gunned the Mazda and drove on. As he turned to downtown and Medford University he thought of the school. Despite its flaws, it still retained its greatness. It was revered across the globe for innovations and advancements in areas as diverse as transplantation and critical care. Among academic circles, Medford University ranked with Harvard and Yale. Fisher feared for the Med’s survival, though. Scary things were happening. Either the powers that be had failed to recognize what was going on, or if they knew, they were helpless to respond to medicine’s accelerating changes.
The aging buildings of the university came into view. Fisher recalled how he felt during the early years of his tenure at the Med. His nighttime trips to put in new hearts were unique. He was performing an unusual task accomplished largely in academic medical centers. That was ten years earlier. Myelopress had ended that.
The situation seemed clear to Fisher as he turned into the old parking deck beside the Med.
CHAPTER THREE
Three-twenty a.m.
The ORs at Medford University relentlessly pulsated. Much like a life force within the hospital’s core — its heart throbbed — its vital flow never ceasing. In the womb of the benevolent beast, human suffering was alleviated. With its powerful instruments and perfectly milled cutting edges, the gentle creature renewed human life struck down by disease. There the beast also wept silently when forced to relinquish a life damaged beyond the powers of its healing magic.
On that February morning, within the breast of the beast, there would be sadness, and there would be joy. From the ashes of one ravaged life would rise the renewed life of others. Death and rebirth.
• • • • •
Rudy Smith’s brain-dead body lay on the operating table in room sixteen. Large-bore infusion catheters and pressure monitoring devices entered internal jugular and subclavian veins through lily-white skin of the neck and upper chest. Out of translucent plastic bags, suspended above his body, flowed vasopressor agents, a stopgap measure to support a failing circulation — the result of dying brain centers. The shock, persistent over the last hours, had responded poorly. So had the body temperature, which stood at only eighty-nine degrees. A downward trend in temperature was present despite layers of OR blankets on top and a warming pad underneath his body.
A brief glance at the blood-soaked dressings that covered the boy’s head explained his rapid deterioration. The missile had struck his head from point-blank range. White and gray brain matter oozed around bandages covering a gaping wound. Skull fragments were easily visible. Although the neurosurgeons made a valiant effort, there was never a chance of salvaging the brain blown apart by the impact. The boy lay still, unmoving, the criteria for brain death established. Rudy Smith had
Vous avez atteint la fin de cet aperçu. Inscrivez-vous pour en lire plus !
Page 1 sur 1
Avis
Avis
Ce que les gens pensent de Organs of Greed
0Note : 0 sur 5 étoiles
0 évaluations / 0 avis
Qu’en avez-vous pensé ?
Note : sur 5 étoiles