In what was becoming a familiar pose, Robert Romano and Gregory Pratt stood
almost toe to toe, voices raised, arguing about a patient. This time it
was an elderly woman with diabetes and moderate kidney failure.
"All I'm saying is, with aggressive treatment there's a chance she'll substantially regain kidney function," Pratt argued.
"Yeah, and a much higher chance that she'll be no better off than before you started, maybe worse, and we'll be out thousands of dollars."
"So, only rich real estate developers are worth saving, huh?" Pratt hoped his reference to the now-incinerated Mr. Westbrook would get a reaction out of Romano.
All it did was annoy the other doctor further. "You know what? Maybe you haven't noticed, but I don't care what you think. Antibiotics for the infection and refer her to the diabetes clinic. That's it."
"She's my patient. You can't just . . ." Pratt began.
"Uh, yeah, I can," Romano cut him off. "You are a resident. I may be stuck with you, but you're stuck with me too. And in case you're thinking about trying an end-run around me, I'd bet dollars to donuts that Kovac goes for conservative treatment too. Wanna wait an hour and try to get it by Dr. Lewis?"
"Yeah, maybe I will," Pratt retorted.
"That was sarcasm, Goofus," Romano sneered, "You don't get to shop your cases around until you can find an attending whose opinion you like!"
Pratt really wanted to deck the little troll. Three factors combined to stay his hand: (1) Romano was his boss, (2) Romano was a lot smaller than him, and (3) Romano had only one arm. Pratt was pretty sure that if only two of the three were true, that would not be enough to keep him from smacking that superior smirk off of his so-called superior's face. As it was, he was frustrated. "Screw this," he mumbled, turning and stalking off.
Romano felt more relieved than pleased at Pratt's retreat, and that bothered him. Just seeing Pratt pissed him off, and he relished the opportunity to slap him down - hard. However, if their confrontations went on too long, Robert found them hard to tolerate. Having Pratt's face inside his personal space made him uncomfortable. He felt a strong desire to step back, away from the other man. But there was no fucking way he would let Pratt think he was backing down.
Fighting with the younger man sapped his energy, and lately he had none to spare. 'Geez, I'm getting old,' he mocked himself, heading to the lounge for a dose of caffeine (it was best to use the hideous coffee medicinally, rather than as a beverage). Robert knew that he was consuming far too much coffee, as poor compensation for far too little sleep, but he couldn't bring himself to care very much about that. 'It's not like I have to stay clear to perform an ex-lap,' he mused bitterly.
*****
Yelling at Pratt turned out to be the high point of a day that just got worse and worse. Supervising Abby and Lester as they debrided the pressure sores on the backside of a morbidly obese man made Robert grateful he'd skipped lunch. Then he had to tell the mother of a three-year-old who drank bleach that, yes, her son would survive, but that the damage to his esophagus and stomach was extensive and might not be fully correctable. He'd meant to be a bit tough on her - how hard was it to remember to keep cleaning supplies in a safe place? But then she started crying and he wished he had just shut up.
Five hours into his shift, Robert was feeling exhausted and shakey. He was having trouble suppressing the anxiety and despair that seemed to lurk always at the edges of his awareness. The fatigue was also making it hard for him to concentrate. As a result, Gallant caught him prescribing a patient the wrong dosage of prednisone. Naturally, the hapless resident received some choice insults for his troubles.
After correcting the error, Robert went off to sit in a quiet exam room for a little while, hoping to clear his head. That lasted about a minute. Quiet was always in short supply in the ER, and, anyway, sitting still was not something he was good at. Buzzing by the front desk, he heard the next call come in: motorcycle vs. SUV, with several cars taken along as collateral damage.
Robert, along with Abby, Neela, and Morris, got the motorcycle driver. He was a young guy who had the brains to wear a helmet, and thus, his brain was still mostly intact. Unfortunately, he had massive internal injuries with bleeding from multiple sites. Looking at the kid, Robert knew that if he were in an OR right now he would have a fighting chance at survival. Not a good chance - maybe 10% - but if the surgeons were quick enough at repairing the damage and tying off the bleeders, and no other complications arose, he could make it. Robert quickly dismissed the urge to cut him open and start stitching right there. With two hands it would be foolhardy; with one it would be murder.
The patient was far too unstable to move, and the chances of stabilizing him were negligible. He was going to die. Of course, they couldn't just let that happen. They had to go through the motions of treating him, just in case. In Robert's mind this process took on a surreal quality. The young man crashed; they got him back; he crashed again. He bled; they pumped in more blood; he bled faster. They shocked him; he twitched in a semblance of animation; he was still. Epi . . . Charge . . . Clear . . . Again . . . Again . . . Their futile dance seemed to go on forever. When Robert couldn't stand it any more he declared the boy dead.
Moments later, the biker's passenger arrived. She was maybe twenty, baby- faced, with long blond hair spilling out from under a bright red helmet. And dark red blood spilling from everywhere else. Having been thrown clear of the pile-up, she was in somewhat better shape than her boyfriend. This one could be saved.
They needed to act fast. Robert tried to force his fuzzy mind to spit out the steps that would keep the girl among the living. But his brain wouldn't cooperate. There was too much to wade through: too many options, too many ways things could go wrong, too much noise and stress clouding his thoughts . . .
*** 'Did she see the truck coming? Bright light then nothing is ever the same again. She looks like Lucy . . .' *** 'Dammit this isn't helping!' He needed to focus . . . to . . .
Abby had noticed that something was not right with Dr. Romano while they were working on the driver. Normally clear and piercing, Romano's voice had become quieter and quieter as they went through the procedures. She had to look at the clock to ascertain the time-of-death that he mumbled. Then the passenger was brought in, and he seemed to shut down completely. He was supposed to be running the trauma, but he was just staring at the girl, not saying anything.
Abby looked to Morris. As a resident, he should have been jumping in, getting things started. But, apparently, he was content to wait for Romano while their patient bled. Abby was not so sanguine. She looked over at Neela, who seemed a little lost, glancing around for direction.
"Dr. Romano," Abby prompted, "Dr. Romano?" When Romano didn't respond, Abby started doing the obvious things, such as evaluating the patient's airway and checking her pupils. She announced her findings as she went, hoping this would snap the doctor out of his trance.
Neela followed Abby's lead, presenting the patient's injuries as if it were a teaching case, "Compound fracture to the left femur with swelling and deformity, breath sounds decreased on the right, possible pneumothorax. Prep for thoracostomy?"
Romano didn't answer, so Neela walked over so that she was face to face with him and repeated her question. Romano tuned in enough to answer affirmatively. "Starting O2 by mask and prepping the chest," Neela continued, then asked, "What size needle?"
Romano seemed to be contemplating Neela's question, but he wasn't replying quickly enough, so Abby prompted, "12 gauge? 14 gauge?"
"Fourteen," Romano said softly.
"She's bradying down, BP and pulse-ox falling," Abby warned. Then she turned on Morris and snapped, "Are you gonna DO something?"
Morris answered uncertainly, "Uh, intubate?"
"You're asking ME?" Abby shot back. As Morris fumbled with the intubation tray, Abby came to the conclusion that they were out of their depth. She and Neela had reached the limits of their expertise as med students. They needed help and guidance. And they weren't going to get it from either of the men in the room.
"I'm going to find somebody to assist," Abby called out, hurrying from the room. She came back moments later with Dr. Kovac in tow.
Seeing the haunted expression on Romano's face, Luka immediately took over running the trauma. He didn't push the older man aside or ask him any questions; he just worked around him. After a few minutes, things were under control. Romano revived enough to assist minimally by bagging the patient. When the girl sufficiently stable, Romano took off without comment. He walked quickly out of the room, toward the exit.
Having experienced true human depravity first-hand, Luka could never quite take seriously the notion that Romano was some kind of moral monster. Nonetheless, he couldn't say he liked the nasty little man. Yet, now, he felt a sort of helpless kinship with him. He guessed that he might have some understanding of what Romano was going through, but he had no idea how to help. Seeing the other doctor heading outside, Luka thought sadly, 'He's not coming back.'
*****
Luka was wrong. Romano was back twenty minutes later. He finished out his shift, avoiding traumas and running the board in an uncharacteristically subdued manner. When his shift was done, he went into the lounge and sat quietly on the couch, waiting to pay the piper.
A short time later, Susan and Luka entered the lounge. Luka and Abby had filled Susan in on what happened. She was not relishing the upcoming discussion. She noticed Lester sitting with Alex near the door, messing around over a chess board. She flashed back nostalgically to an image of Mark and Doug playing chess in the lounge. She remembered with a smile that their game didn't proceed very well, since Doug had the attention span of a flea. 'Different lounge, different people,' she mused, as she asked the pair to relocate their game elsewhere.
Romano was slumped on the couch, nursing a cup of coffee. He looked up as Susan and Luka approached, and asked bitterly, "You finished tattling to Weaver?"
Susan rolled her eyes, "Have a little faith in your colleagues, huh?"
"Please don't tell me this is an intervention," he shot back with a sneer.
Susan smirked as she and Luka sat down across from Romano. Then, becoming serious, she asked, "What happened?"
"He was there," Romano nodded toward Kovac, "why don't you ask him?"
"I know what I saw," Luka responded. Then he and Susan waited quietly for Romano to get past his defensiveness and give them a real answer.
Eventually, Romano said simply, "I froze." He looked away from the other two doctors.
"It happens," Susan put in gently, trying to prompt Romano to elaborate a bit on his two-word explanation.
"Not to me it doesn't," Romano snapped.
Susan could hear the strain in his voice, but she persisted, "Do you know why it happened? Was it something about the case?"
Romano shrugged. Susan and Luka waited.
Finally, Romano admitted, "I haven't been sleeping. It's catching up with me." He rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then, after a moment he added in a dejected whisper, "The only thing I can do is give orders, and now I can't even do that."
None of them were under the illusion that he was talking about simple insomnia. Susan noted how unhealthy Robert looked. His complexion matched the light gray in his beard, and he had lost weight. He seemed to be fighting to keep his emotions under control.
Romano looked back at the others and saw them watching him, then he stared down into his coffee. Trying to end the awkward silence he spat, "What do you want me to say, 'I fucked up. I'm sorry.'?"
"Not good enough," Susan replied.
Romano looked up sharply at her no-nonsense tone. Susan continued, "We need a plan."
"What kind of a plan," Romano asked, wary, putting down his cup.
If it was anybody else, Susan would have suggested he take some time off to get himself together. But instinct told her that Romano needed to work like he needed to breathe. So, she improvised, "You need to do what you can to treat this problem. Meanwhile, make sure you have some kind of back- up nearby when you go into a trauma - one of us, or at least a competent resident like Gallant." Susan almost added "or Pratt", but thought better of it. She wasn't sure Romano could cope with the thought of Pratt bailing him out. "Sound reasonable?"
Romano nodded meekly, "OK." Then he leaned back, resting the back of his head on the top of the couch, looking up at the ceiling. He closed his eyes and laid his hand across his face as if to keep out the rest of the world.
Seeing Robert looking so defeated, Susan stifled an irrational impulse to give him a quick hug. 'He would SO hate that,' she thought, smiling ruefully. Instead, she continued matter-of-factly, "OK then. I'll check the schedules. We'll try to make it so that Dr. Kovac or I overlap with you as much as possible." With that, she got up to leave. Luka nodded sympathetically and followed suit.
Hearing Luka and Susan get up, Romano asked wearily from behind his hand, "Why are you doing this? It's not your problem."
In the pause before they replied, he opened his eyes and looked up to see them standing over him - Luka on the left, Susan on the right. *** Rotors spinning overhead -- 'Do we have the arm?' 'No, don't clamp it' 'What blood type are you?' ***
"Because it is the right thing to do," Luka answered seriously.
"Nah, we just live for extra work," Susan added, grinning over her shoulder at Romano as she and Luka exited the lounge.
*****
Several days later . . . An e-mail exchange:
To: deraad@ucms.edu From: RRocket@aol.com
Karl, Having trouble sleeping. I've tried the usual suspects. Anything you can recommend? -- Romano
*****
To: RRocket@aol.com From: deraad@ucms.edu
Hi Robert, You would need to come see me to discuss meds you've been on since the surgery, symptoms, etc. I've got some time open Friday afternoon. Or, if you don't want to be seen with me, you can come to my house for lunch on Saturday ;-) Karl
*****
To: deraad@ucms.edu From: RRocket@aol.com
Fine. Saturday. But I'm not going to talk about my shitty life. Thanks, RR
*****
To: RRocket@aol.com From: deraad@ucms.edu
Talking about your shitty life is optional. -- Karl
*****
Author's Note: I'll be traveling for the Holidays, and will have minimal computer access. So, I'm afraid my story will have to go on "winter hiatus" for a couple of weeks. In case you were wondering, Karl De Raad is the head of the psychiatry department at County. He's the cool middle-aged guy, not the annoying resident that Luka was supposed to see.
"All I'm saying is, with aggressive treatment there's a chance she'll substantially regain kidney function," Pratt argued.
"Yeah, and a much higher chance that she'll be no better off than before you started, maybe worse, and we'll be out thousands of dollars."
"So, only rich real estate developers are worth saving, huh?" Pratt hoped his reference to the now-incinerated Mr. Westbrook would get a reaction out of Romano.
All it did was annoy the other doctor further. "You know what? Maybe you haven't noticed, but I don't care what you think. Antibiotics for the infection and refer her to the diabetes clinic. That's it."
"She's my patient. You can't just . . ." Pratt began.
"Uh, yeah, I can," Romano cut him off. "You are a resident. I may be stuck with you, but you're stuck with me too. And in case you're thinking about trying an end-run around me, I'd bet dollars to donuts that Kovac goes for conservative treatment too. Wanna wait an hour and try to get it by Dr. Lewis?"
"Yeah, maybe I will," Pratt retorted.
"That was sarcasm, Goofus," Romano sneered, "You don't get to shop your cases around until you can find an attending whose opinion you like!"
Pratt really wanted to deck the little troll. Three factors combined to stay his hand: (1) Romano was his boss, (2) Romano was a lot smaller than him, and (3) Romano had only one arm. Pratt was pretty sure that if only two of the three were true, that would not be enough to keep him from smacking that superior smirk off of his so-called superior's face. As it was, he was frustrated. "Screw this," he mumbled, turning and stalking off.
Romano felt more relieved than pleased at Pratt's retreat, and that bothered him. Just seeing Pratt pissed him off, and he relished the opportunity to slap him down - hard. However, if their confrontations went on too long, Robert found them hard to tolerate. Having Pratt's face inside his personal space made him uncomfortable. He felt a strong desire to step back, away from the other man. But there was no fucking way he would let Pratt think he was backing down.
Fighting with the younger man sapped his energy, and lately he had none to spare. 'Geez, I'm getting old,' he mocked himself, heading to the lounge for a dose of caffeine (it was best to use the hideous coffee medicinally, rather than as a beverage). Robert knew that he was consuming far too much coffee, as poor compensation for far too little sleep, but he couldn't bring himself to care very much about that. 'It's not like I have to stay clear to perform an ex-lap,' he mused bitterly.
*****
Yelling at Pratt turned out to be the high point of a day that just got worse and worse. Supervising Abby and Lester as they debrided the pressure sores on the backside of a morbidly obese man made Robert grateful he'd skipped lunch. Then he had to tell the mother of a three-year-old who drank bleach that, yes, her son would survive, but that the damage to his esophagus and stomach was extensive and might not be fully correctable. He'd meant to be a bit tough on her - how hard was it to remember to keep cleaning supplies in a safe place? But then she started crying and he wished he had just shut up.
Five hours into his shift, Robert was feeling exhausted and shakey. He was having trouble suppressing the anxiety and despair that seemed to lurk always at the edges of his awareness. The fatigue was also making it hard for him to concentrate. As a result, Gallant caught him prescribing a patient the wrong dosage of prednisone. Naturally, the hapless resident received some choice insults for his troubles.
After correcting the error, Robert went off to sit in a quiet exam room for a little while, hoping to clear his head. That lasted about a minute. Quiet was always in short supply in the ER, and, anyway, sitting still was not something he was good at. Buzzing by the front desk, he heard the next call come in: motorcycle vs. SUV, with several cars taken along as collateral damage.
Robert, along with Abby, Neela, and Morris, got the motorcycle driver. He was a young guy who had the brains to wear a helmet, and thus, his brain was still mostly intact. Unfortunately, he had massive internal injuries with bleeding from multiple sites. Looking at the kid, Robert knew that if he were in an OR right now he would have a fighting chance at survival. Not a good chance - maybe 10% - but if the surgeons were quick enough at repairing the damage and tying off the bleeders, and no other complications arose, he could make it. Robert quickly dismissed the urge to cut him open and start stitching right there. With two hands it would be foolhardy; with one it would be murder.
The patient was far too unstable to move, and the chances of stabilizing him were negligible. He was going to die. Of course, they couldn't just let that happen. They had to go through the motions of treating him, just in case. In Robert's mind this process took on a surreal quality. The young man crashed; they got him back; he crashed again. He bled; they pumped in more blood; he bled faster. They shocked him; he twitched in a semblance of animation; he was still. Epi . . . Charge . . . Clear . . . Again . . . Again . . . Their futile dance seemed to go on forever. When Robert couldn't stand it any more he declared the boy dead.
Moments later, the biker's passenger arrived. She was maybe twenty, baby- faced, with long blond hair spilling out from under a bright red helmet. And dark red blood spilling from everywhere else. Having been thrown clear of the pile-up, she was in somewhat better shape than her boyfriend. This one could be saved.
They needed to act fast. Robert tried to force his fuzzy mind to spit out the steps that would keep the girl among the living. But his brain wouldn't cooperate. There was too much to wade through: too many options, too many ways things could go wrong, too much noise and stress clouding his thoughts . . .
*** 'Did she see the truck coming? Bright light then nothing is ever the same again. She looks like Lucy . . .' *** 'Dammit this isn't helping!' He needed to focus . . . to . . .
Abby had noticed that something was not right with Dr. Romano while they were working on the driver. Normally clear and piercing, Romano's voice had become quieter and quieter as they went through the procedures. She had to look at the clock to ascertain the time-of-death that he mumbled. Then the passenger was brought in, and he seemed to shut down completely. He was supposed to be running the trauma, but he was just staring at the girl, not saying anything.
Abby looked to Morris. As a resident, he should have been jumping in, getting things started. But, apparently, he was content to wait for Romano while their patient bled. Abby was not so sanguine. She looked over at Neela, who seemed a little lost, glancing around for direction.
"Dr. Romano," Abby prompted, "Dr. Romano?" When Romano didn't respond, Abby started doing the obvious things, such as evaluating the patient's airway and checking her pupils. She announced her findings as she went, hoping this would snap the doctor out of his trance.
Neela followed Abby's lead, presenting the patient's injuries as if it were a teaching case, "Compound fracture to the left femur with swelling and deformity, breath sounds decreased on the right, possible pneumothorax. Prep for thoracostomy?"
Romano didn't answer, so Neela walked over so that she was face to face with him and repeated her question. Romano tuned in enough to answer affirmatively. "Starting O2 by mask and prepping the chest," Neela continued, then asked, "What size needle?"
Romano seemed to be contemplating Neela's question, but he wasn't replying quickly enough, so Abby prompted, "12 gauge? 14 gauge?"
"Fourteen," Romano said softly.
"She's bradying down, BP and pulse-ox falling," Abby warned. Then she turned on Morris and snapped, "Are you gonna DO something?"
Morris answered uncertainly, "Uh, intubate?"
"You're asking ME?" Abby shot back. As Morris fumbled with the intubation tray, Abby came to the conclusion that they were out of their depth. She and Neela had reached the limits of their expertise as med students. They needed help and guidance. And they weren't going to get it from either of the men in the room.
"I'm going to find somebody to assist," Abby called out, hurrying from the room. She came back moments later with Dr. Kovac in tow.
Seeing the haunted expression on Romano's face, Luka immediately took over running the trauma. He didn't push the older man aside or ask him any questions; he just worked around him. After a few minutes, things were under control. Romano revived enough to assist minimally by bagging the patient. When the girl sufficiently stable, Romano took off without comment. He walked quickly out of the room, toward the exit.
Having experienced true human depravity first-hand, Luka could never quite take seriously the notion that Romano was some kind of moral monster. Nonetheless, he couldn't say he liked the nasty little man. Yet, now, he felt a sort of helpless kinship with him. He guessed that he might have some understanding of what Romano was going through, but he had no idea how to help. Seeing the other doctor heading outside, Luka thought sadly, 'He's not coming back.'
*****
Luka was wrong. Romano was back twenty minutes later. He finished out his shift, avoiding traumas and running the board in an uncharacteristically subdued manner. When his shift was done, he went into the lounge and sat quietly on the couch, waiting to pay the piper.
A short time later, Susan and Luka entered the lounge. Luka and Abby had filled Susan in on what happened. She was not relishing the upcoming discussion. She noticed Lester sitting with Alex near the door, messing around over a chess board. She flashed back nostalgically to an image of Mark and Doug playing chess in the lounge. She remembered with a smile that their game didn't proceed very well, since Doug had the attention span of a flea. 'Different lounge, different people,' she mused, as she asked the pair to relocate their game elsewhere.
Romano was slumped on the couch, nursing a cup of coffee. He looked up as Susan and Luka approached, and asked bitterly, "You finished tattling to Weaver?"
Susan rolled her eyes, "Have a little faith in your colleagues, huh?"
"Please don't tell me this is an intervention," he shot back with a sneer.
Susan smirked as she and Luka sat down across from Romano. Then, becoming serious, she asked, "What happened?"
"He was there," Romano nodded toward Kovac, "why don't you ask him?"
"I know what I saw," Luka responded. Then he and Susan waited quietly for Romano to get past his defensiveness and give them a real answer.
Eventually, Romano said simply, "I froze." He looked away from the other two doctors.
"It happens," Susan put in gently, trying to prompt Romano to elaborate a bit on his two-word explanation.
"Not to me it doesn't," Romano snapped.
Susan could hear the strain in his voice, but she persisted, "Do you know why it happened? Was it something about the case?"
Romano shrugged. Susan and Luka waited.
Finally, Romano admitted, "I haven't been sleeping. It's catching up with me." He rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then, after a moment he added in a dejected whisper, "The only thing I can do is give orders, and now I can't even do that."
None of them were under the illusion that he was talking about simple insomnia. Susan noted how unhealthy Robert looked. His complexion matched the light gray in his beard, and he had lost weight. He seemed to be fighting to keep his emotions under control.
Romano looked back at the others and saw them watching him, then he stared down into his coffee. Trying to end the awkward silence he spat, "What do you want me to say, 'I fucked up. I'm sorry.'?"
"Not good enough," Susan replied.
Romano looked up sharply at her no-nonsense tone. Susan continued, "We need a plan."
"What kind of a plan," Romano asked, wary, putting down his cup.
If it was anybody else, Susan would have suggested he take some time off to get himself together. But instinct told her that Romano needed to work like he needed to breathe. So, she improvised, "You need to do what you can to treat this problem. Meanwhile, make sure you have some kind of back- up nearby when you go into a trauma - one of us, or at least a competent resident like Gallant." Susan almost added "or Pratt", but thought better of it. She wasn't sure Romano could cope with the thought of Pratt bailing him out. "Sound reasonable?"
Romano nodded meekly, "OK." Then he leaned back, resting the back of his head on the top of the couch, looking up at the ceiling. He closed his eyes and laid his hand across his face as if to keep out the rest of the world.
Seeing Robert looking so defeated, Susan stifled an irrational impulse to give him a quick hug. 'He would SO hate that,' she thought, smiling ruefully. Instead, she continued matter-of-factly, "OK then. I'll check the schedules. We'll try to make it so that Dr. Kovac or I overlap with you as much as possible." With that, she got up to leave. Luka nodded sympathetically and followed suit.
Hearing Luka and Susan get up, Romano asked wearily from behind his hand, "Why are you doing this? It's not your problem."
In the pause before they replied, he opened his eyes and looked up to see them standing over him - Luka on the left, Susan on the right. *** Rotors spinning overhead -- 'Do we have the arm?' 'No, don't clamp it' 'What blood type are you?' ***
"Because it is the right thing to do," Luka answered seriously.
"Nah, we just live for extra work," Susan added, grinning over her shoulder at Romano as she and Luka exited the lounge.
*****
Several days later . . . An e-mail exchange:
To: deraad@ucms.edu From: RRocket@aol.com
Karl, Having trouble sleeping. I've tried the usual suspects. Anything you can recommend? -- Romano
*****
To: RRocket@aol.com From: deraad@ucms.edu
Hi Robert, You would need to come see me to discuss meds you've been on since the surgery, symptoms, etc. I've got some time open Friday afternoon. Or, if you don't want to be seen with me, you can come to my house for lunch on Saturday ;-) Karl
*****
To: deraad@ucms.edu From: RRocket@aol.com
Fine. Saturday. But I'm not going to talk about my shitty life. Thanks, RR
*****
To: RRocket@aol.com From: deraad@ucms.edu
Talking about your shitty life is optional. -- Karl
*****
Author's Note: I'll be traveling for the Holidays, and will have minimal computer access. So, I'm afraid my story will have to go on "winter hiatus" for a couple of weeks. In case you were wondering, Karl De Raad is the head of the psychiatry department at County. He's the cool middle-aged guy, not the annoying resident that Luka was supposed to see.