Suggestion: You might want to read my story, "Visiting Hours 2: Gallant,"
before reading this chapter.
*****
The morning of the episode "Forgive and Forget" . . .
Appreciatively, Robert Romano took in the efficient buzz of the OR as he performed a bullectomy on a 68-year-old man with emphysema. The patient maintained good sats and pressure while Robert excised the enlarged air sacs in his lungs, making room for the healthier air sacs to expand.
Surveying the field prior to closing, Robert felt a familiar twinge as he used his left hand to retract the probe. He ignored it, pushing past the pain and focusing on the procedure. 'More suction,' he ordered. Shirley complied.
The nagging ache increased. Robert didn't let himself look down at his hand, afraid of what he would see. 'Be careful,' someone said, 'that's not sterile.'
Robert looked around, trying to find the source of this advice, but it was hard to hear over the loud thumping in the background. It sounded like his own heartbeat, but farther away, hovering ominously outside, surrounding the room.
A sharp pain made him glance down at his left arm. It was a charred mess, barely recognizable as a human limb. He stared at it, not really surprised, yet deeply horrified. Backing off, he whispered hoarsely, 'I don't want to contaminate . . .,' then trailed off, choking on the smell of burnt flesh. He closed his eyes as the thumping got louder, closer, faster . . .
Robert sat bolt upright in bed. "Fuck," he swore softly, running a trembling hand over his face.
After several minutes, he'd collected himself enough to get out of bed. It was 4:30 in the morning and he had to get up at 7, but by now he knew better than to try to go right back to sleep. Were it not raining, he might have gone for a quick run. Instead, he settled for putting on his Utah arm to do some exercises that might calm the phantom pains, and popping a couple of Advil for the sympathetic aches in the parts of his body that actually still existed. Then he removed the prosthesis and took a hot shower.
45 minutes later, he was curled up on the couch with an article about a new diagnostic tool that Neela had asked him about. As he drifted back to sleep, he thought wryly, 'At least this time I got to do a reasonably interesting procedure before everything went to hell. Last time it was an Appy. Kind of a waste of R.E.M. . . .'
*****
At the beginning of the morning shift, Haleh Adams entered the lounge with Chuny and Lydia for their daily ritual of coffee and conversation. Unfortunately, this morning, their retreat was occupied. Dr. Romano was on the phone, yelling at someone from the Department of Child and Family Services: "Yes, I know she was temporarily admitted to the pediatric psych ward at Elgin. The key word here is 'temporary', as in 'subject to change'. She's been there a month now. Why isn't she in therapeutic foster care yet?"
'Better he screams at DCFS than us,' Haleh thought. She felt a little guilty for this reaction, knowing that social workers, like nurses, were the target of much verbal abuse.
A feminine voice on the other end of the phone seemed to be trying to explain something. Romano replied belligerently, "She's freakin' eight years old! How dangerous can she be? . . . Wait – No – Don't transfer me! Hello? No, I spoke to you earlier and you were completely useless."
Scowling, he slammed the phone down. The force of his slam made the receiver rebound from the phone and clatter to the floor. Haleh heard Chuny and Lydia titter as Romano bent to retrieve the phone. He turned on the nurses, snarling, "If you ladies have time for a coffee-klatch, you obviously don't have enough work to do. What, is every female in the so- called 'helping professions' either lazy or incompetent? Get busy!"
Chuny rolled her eyes as she and Lydia headed for the door with Romano close on their heels. Haleh lagged behind, putting her lunch into the refrigerator. As he left the lounge, Romano prodded impatiently, "That means you too, Aunt Jemima."
'No. He did NOT just call me that,' was Haleh's stunned reaction. Before she could even glare, Romano was gone. By the time she exited the lounge, he was halfway down the hall.
Walking in his wake toward the Admit area, Haleh mused that, despite the fact that he'd fired her on his first day in the ER, she usually got along reasonably well with Dr. Romano. In her long tenure as a nurse, she'd learned to ignore rude behavior. Her pride in herself and her profession was not of the prickly sort that needed to be constantly defended. But this time he'd gone too far. 'That boy needs a serious talking to . . .'
Haleh arrived in the Admit area just in time to hear Neela eloquently berate Frank for his bigoted remarks. Haleh was only recently beginning to warm to the young medical student, whose introversion sometimes made her come off as aloof. She smiled as Neela finished, ". . . All I expect from you in the future is silence. Blissful silence."
Romano, obviously enjoying Neela's rant, chuckled, "Aw, isn't she cute when she's self righteous?"
Neela shifted her gaze from Frank to Romano. Although the contempt in her eyes diminished, her voice was still cold as she responded quietly, "Please don't patronize me." Then she turned on her heel and left to attend to her patient.
Frank, clearly unfazed by the verbal lashing, smirked, "Must be somebody's time of month."
"Shut up, Frank," Romano growled. He seemed perturbed for a moment, frowning at the disapproval that didn't quite leave Neela's expression when she looked from Frank to him. Haleh scoffed inwardly as, instead of trying to analyze the possible reasons for this disapproval, Romano immediately took his discomfort out on the nearest target, "What the hell are all these boxes doing here?"
Frank explained, "Dr. Weaver decided to have the old residency applications for the past 10 years boxed up . . ."
"And, naturally, they have to be sitting right here, in the way. Is Weaver just *looking* for new ways to piss me off? No, don't answer that, of course she is." He grabbed some charts and stalked off before Frank could reply.
*****
A few hours later, Michael Gallant sat near the board, looking up a differential diagnosis in one of the reference volumes. For a change, the ER was not busy – thanks mostly to the tank-wielding madman circling outside. Between duties, many staff members clustered near the television, following the bizarre drama as it unfolded. Dr. Romano threw out the occasional gripe about "slackers worshiping the boob tube," but with few patients and ample staff to care for them, he really didn't have much to complain about.
Gallant had seen tanks up-close on many occasions, so he was a less entranced than his colleagues and could use the down-time more productively. He looked up from his research as a detective from the Chicago PD arrived in the ER, along with an agitated Kerry Weaver.
Dr. Romano, standing by the board, greeted, "Hey Kerry, wouldn't it be nice, just once, to turn on the TV and see a hospital-related disaster that DIDN'T take place at County? I mean, don'tcha think Mercy and Northwestern are due for an explosion or a plague of locusts or something?"
Dr. Weaver snorted, "Yeah. Why should we have all the fun?" before resuming her dour expression.
The detective explained that the police were deploying roadblocks to protect the hospital from the tank. Any reassurance this plan might have offered crumbled when the tank appeared on the TV screen, easily trampling the roadblock cars.
Glancing around, Gallant saw disappointment on his colleagues' faces. Dr. Romano, naturally, was openly derisive: "You people call that a roadblock? Two puny cars? Hey Frank, I figured out what you can do with those damn boxes. Morris, help Frank build a barricade in the ambulance bay."
"No, thank-you," Frank responded, without diverting his admiring gaze from the television, "By the way, your niece called. She wants you to call back if you don't get squished."
Dr. Weaver shot an embarrassed glance at the police detective and sighed, "Robert, stop ordering our employees to their deaths."
The detective went on to tell the gathered crowd that they hoped to use a succession of roadblocks to force the tank driver to run out of gas. This proposal was met with a resounding lack of enthusiasm, especially from Morris, who, Gallant noted, looked much more alert than usual.
As the detective left and the crowd broke up into murmuring cliques, Abby put in, "They're also bringing in a helicopter with a giant magnet."
Gallant was stunned at the hope that flashed across Morris' face: 'He really doesn't get it, does he?' Momentarily, the murmuring stopped, as everybody paused for a moment to gape at Morris' gullibility, then went back to their conversations.
Dr. Romano snarked at Abby, "Great idea – that way the weight of the tank can drag the chopper down to the ground and it can land on my . . . car. Yeah, thanks Abby, I needed that mental image."
Abby smirked in response to Romano's light flippant tone, but Gallant, sitting closer to the ER Chief, noticed his eyes cloud with anxiety. The televised coverage picked that moment to show a view of the tank from the vantage point of the news helicopter – complete with prominent audio of whooshing rotors. Romano blanched.
Hoping to provide a distraction, Gallant asked Romano, "Your niece who called – is that Jessie?"
Romano replied, "Huh? Yeah, Jessie. Oh, that's right, you met her. Bunch of colleges in Chicago are doing a program next week for high school students on spring break. Jess is attending, though she's convinced it will be 'lame'." He said the last word in the dismissive tone favored by many teens.
"Does she visit often?" Gallant inquired.
With an expression both rueful and mischievous, Romano answered, "Mmm, no. Jess likes to make people crazy. For some reason, her folks seem to think I'm a bad influence on her in that regard."
"I can't imagine why." Abby put in sarcastically.
Ignoring Abby, Romano went on, "She stayed with me for a couple of weeks last summer, after I got out of the hospital and her school was out. I wasn't supposed to drive after the surgery; Jess had just gotten her permit and would've driven from the garage to the mailbox if her parents let her. So that worked out well. Had to teach her to drive a stick, though . . ." He had a far-away look in his eyes and was smiling softly as if lost in the memory.
Gallant laughed, "Um, I'm fairly certain that when your doctor tells you not to drive after surgery, that means you're not supposed to give driving LESSONS either."
"Actually," Romano quipped, "Being heavily medicated and physically unable to grab the wheel from the passenger seat – these are probably assets when driving with teenagers."
Gallant grinned at the change in Romano's attitude: when he spoke about his niece, he seemed almost human.
Romano continued, "Normally she takes the train, but now she's trying to get me to drive up Friday night and bring her back here with me Saturday, and she won't explain why."
"Maybe she just wants to drive back?" Gallant offered.
"Nah, she's a devious little brat. She's up to something," Romano concluded fondly.
*****
The following Monday afternoon . . .
As Morris looked on, John Carter deftly threaded the plastic tube into the patient's throat. "It's in," he announced, then directed the resident, "OK, bag her."
Carter watched with satisfaction as the patient's pulse-ox climbed to an acceptable level. Leaving the room, he nodded to Morris, "She's all yours."
Morris had run into trouble intubating his patient. Romano came on the scene first, but he couldn't do the job himself one-handed, and his attempt to "talk" – that is, viciously harass – Morris through the procedure was a dismal failure. So Carter had to step in. He couldn't completely fault Romano, as Morris was not the most skillful resident John had seen. But belittling the guy during a procedure certainly wouldn't help. And sulkily leaving the room when Carter took over, as Romano had done, was hardly setting the best example for the students and residents.
'Heck, he's going to hate me now anyway; might as well talk to him about Mr. Dawson's meds,' Carter decided, referring to a patient whose prescription Romano had botched earlier.
John had to admit that Romano's error rate had improved considerably. Thinking back to when he left for Africa, he remembered Romano as a raging lunatic who didn't know what he was doing, didn't want to learn, and didn't care how many patients suffered as a result. If anyone but Kerry had put such an incompetent and unstable person in charge of the ER, Carter would have taken it as an insult to the importance of emergency medicine. As it was, he believed Kerry when she admitted that she didn't have any other place to put Romano at the moment, and he took it as a compliment to the rest of the ER staff that Kerry thought they could compensate for their chief's failings.
Romano had apparently learned a lot in the past year, and was now, in Carter's estimation, marginally competent in most areas of emergency medicine. But he was still bitter, insensitive, and lacking in social skills, and he took correction terribly. Additionally, the sorts of activities that were most appropriate given his physical and experiential limitations – the commonplace medical cases rather than tough cases or traumas – he regarded as beneath him.
Furthermore, though Romano rarely seriously endangered patients' lives nowadays, he still made enough errors that Carter felt the need to check up on him, which was awkward for both of them. Carter resented having to keep an eye on somebody who was supposed to be his superior. And, judging by his reactions, Romano resented the supervision.
Carter looked in Exam 3, where Romano often went to do paperwork. The door was open, the light was on, and the ER chief was sitting at the table near the wall. Carter started to enter, when he realized that Romano wasn't alone. Haleh stood to his right, speaking in a low, clear voice: ". . . I been a nurse for almost 30 years, 24 of them right here at County . . ."
"What do you want, a medal?" Romano interrupted. Carter snickered to himself, 'Wow – that was childish even for him.'
"I've got seniority. I can transfer to any almost any department I want to. Now, I like working the ER; it's been my home for a long time. I can even live with the fact that you're incredibly arrogant and look down on nurses."
Romano prompted irritably, "So, what's your problem?"
"If you can't address me proper, I'm leaving. I'm sure I won't be the last to go."
Romano looked surprised, then amused. "That's all?" he asked. Haleh nodded.
Noticing Carter in the doorway, Romano acknowledged him with a glance, then said to Haleh in a mocking tone, "How, exactly, do you want me to address you?"
Taking Carter's arrival as her cue to exit, Haleh replied, "Your mama raised you right, you'll figure it out." With a straight face but a twinkle in her eyes, she nodded at both men and left the room.
Romano scowled at Carter, who was grinning ear-to-ear, and groused, "You finished with Tank Boy?"
Carter could tell that Romano wasn't too angry. Yet. "Uh huh," he answered, "But I need to talk to you about Mr. Dawson . . ." He went on to explain why the particular course of medications that Romano had prescribed was inappropriate, given the patient's history of vascular disease. Dawson was still waiting on a blood glucose test, so there was time to change the meds.
As Carter spoke, Romano narrowed his eyes and fidgeted with some papers on the table. His behavior conveyed boredom and hostility. Finally, without admitting that he was wrong, he grudgingly agreed to substitute the medications Carter suggested.
Then, out of left field, he hit Carter with, "I can't believe you turned down a surgical residency for *this*. What happened? Did you realize you weren't going to cut it in surgery and figure you'd settle for being the big fish in a pond of small talents? I don't get it."
Carter smiled wryly, surmising that there was an actual question buried within the insult. Romano was probably just being a jerk, trying to get back at Carter for showing him up. But there was an intense look in his eyes that made Carter want to try to answer him. He replied, "I liked surgery as a technical exercise. But I wanted to have more meaningful relationships with my patients . . ."
Romano rejected this reason with a dismissive wave, "Give me a break. You work in a busy urban ER. Except for a few regulars – mostly pungent homeless losers – you see patients for maybe 20 minutes, then never see them again. Marcus Welby you ain't."
Carter frowned, frustrated. He knew that his decision had been the right one for him. Emergency Medicine let him connect with his patients in a way that surgery did not. But it was hard to explain why, even to himself. And, while Romano appeared strangely desperate for some kind of answer, he wasn't able to actually listen – charitably – to an explanation that wasn't cut and dry. In fact, Romano now seemed to be trying to dodge the discussion, though he'd started it himself, by bounding off toward the Exam room door.
Following his supervisor out into the Admit area, Carter offered, "At least the patients are conscious."
"You say that like it's a good thing," Romano deadpanned.
Carter laughed at the self-parody, hoping fervently that it WAS self- parody.
*****
Three hours later . . .
Susan Lewis arrived for her evening shift, 10 minutes late, flustered, and queasy. She stopped by the Admit desk, where Jerry and Sam were entertaining a visitor: Frank's daughter, a good-natured woman with Down Syndrome whom Susan had met briefly a few days ago.
"Hello, Dr. Lewis," Jerry greeted. "Frank's wife is visiting him in ICU, and Janey wanted to see where her Dad works, so we're giving her a little tour."
"My Daddy stand right here. He answers the phone," Janey offered proudly. She mimicked picking up the receiver, saying, "This's County General, how can I help you?"
Susan smiled, noting that Janey's phone manner was much nicer than her father's, and wondered, 'How could Frank have produced such a pleasant offspring?' As she chatted briefly with Jerry and Janey, Susan was peripherally aware of another conversation going on at the other end of the Admit desk: A girl was talking to Gallant, her elbows propped on the desk, red curls tipped with green bouncing as she cocked her head up toward him, saying, ". . . So, suppose I know I'm going to have an emergency. Can I make an appointment instead of having to wait, like, 12 hours?"
"If you know about it in advance, that kind of means it's not an 'emergency', right?" Gallant replied. From his tone, Susan could tell he was kidding around, not having a serious medical discussion.
Tauntingly, the girl suggested, "Alcohol. Poisoning."
'Is anybody around here actually working?' Susan grumbled, then caught herself, 'Oh God, I sound like Romano. Plus, it's not like I've picked up a chart yet either . . .'
She proceeded into the lounge to deposit her coat. Spying Robert at his locker she whined, "I know. I'm late. Don't start with me. Whoever named it 'morning sickness' must've been a man. If they called it as it is – 9 months of 24-hour crippling nausea – we'd never let 'em knock us up."
"And good evening to you to Dr. Lewis. You forgot to mention the hormone induced psychosis . . .," Romano smirked.
Susan made a face at him. Then, noticing that he was gathering his things to leave, she commented, "You're actually leaving more-or-less on time today."
Romano glanced around the lounge, which was empty except for them, then shot back dryly, "Yeah, uh, I've gotta get home before the latest addition to my household eats the couch."
Susan stared at him blankly for a moment, then, noticing that he was barely containing a silly grin, she figured it out. "You got a dog!" she exclaimed gleefully. "When? How?"
"Well, my niece kind of ambushed me. She got me to go with her to this doggie-rescue-group lady's house. They showed me a 5-month-old Bouvier-mix pup and Jessie guilted me about how sweet he was and how bad the prospects are for big dogs who don't get adopted young."
"You didn't have to say 'Yes'," Susan teased.
"Yeah, I did."
Susan asked, "How come?"
"Because he's *really* sweet and big dogs don't do well if they're not adopted young," Romano admitted sheepishly, obviously smitten.
Susan laughed at his little-boy smile, tickled by the fact that her hard ass boss could, on rare occasions, be a complete push-over. "What's his name? Do you have pictures?"
"His name's Rupert – they named him after a big shaggy guy on a TV show. And, yes, Jess took some pictures."
"Lemme see!" Susan demanded.
"I didn't bring them to work," Robert explained, as if that should be obvious.
"Have you seen my locker? It's like a shrine to Twopper."
"Yeah, but you're a GIRL," Robert mocked.
Laughing, Susan retorted, "Hmmm . . . I don't know if I should be offended at your sexism, or flattered that as I pass the big three-five somebody still thinks of me as a girl . . ."
He started to speak, undoubtedly ready to supply an obnoxious comment that would settle the matter, but Susan cut him off, grinning, "You know, Robert, on those rare occasions when you accidentally manage not to piss somebody off, maybe you should just go with it."
*****
Author's Notes: Thanks to all my kind reviewers! TV-crazy, I'm glad you like my unusual word choices. One of the joys of writing from the perspective of highly verbal people like Robert, Neela, and Elizabeth, is that I can let my underutilized vocabulary come out to play.
I saw "The Student" last week -- Aaaaah! When did Neela become a 4th year med student? I thought she was 3rd year. I'll have to slightly revise Chapter 7 accordingly. Otherwise, I don't plan on including the events of this episode. As you can tell from this chapter, Susan is pregnant. But she's not as far along as she seems to be on the show. I'm assuming that she was not pregnant in late November, when Chuck suggested making a few "dependents". Thus, she shouldn't be due 'till September.
Sorry about the slow updates. I'm a perfectionist :-)
*****
The morning of the episode "Forgive and Forget" . . .
Appreciatively, Robert Romano took in the efficient buzz of the OR as he performed a bullectomy on a 68-year-old man with emphysema. The patient maintained good sats and pressure while Robert excised the enlarged air sacs in his lungs, making room for the healthier air sacs to expand.
Surveying the field prior to closing, Robert felt a familiar twinge as he used his left hand to retract the probe. He ignored it, pushing past the pain and focusing on the procedure. 'More suction,' he ordered. Shirley complied.
The nagging ache increased. Robert didn't let himself look down at his hand, afraid of what he would see. 'Be careful,' someone said, 'that's not sterile.'
Robert looked around, trying to find the source of this advice, but it was hard to hear over the loud thumping in the background. It sounded like his own heartbeat, but farther away, hovering ominously outside, surrounding the room.
A sharp pain made him glance down at his left arm. It was a charred mess, barely recognizable as a human limb. He stared at it, not really surprised, yet deeply horrified. Backing off, he whispered hoarsely, 'I don't want to contaminate . . .,' then trailed off, choking on the smell of burnt flesh. He closed his eyes as the thumping got louder, closer, faster . . .
Robert sat bolt upright in bed. "Fuck," he swore softly, running a trembling hand over his face.
After several minutes, he'd collected himself enough to get out of bed. It was 4:30 in the morning and he had to get up at 7, but by now he knew better than to try to go right back to sleep. Were it not raining, he might have gone for a quick run. Instead, he settled for putting on his Utah arm to do some exercises that might calm the phantom pains, and popping a couple of Advil for the sympathetic aches in the parts of his body that actually still existed. Then he removed the prosthesis and took a hot shower.
45 minutes later, he was curled up on the couch with an article about a new diagnostic tool that Neela had asked him about. As he drifted back to sleep, he thought wryly, 'At least this time I got to do a reasonably interesting procedure before everything went to hell. Last time it was an Appy. Kind of a waste of R.E.M. . . .'
*****
At the beginning of the morning shift, Haleh Adams entered the lounge with Chuny and Lydia for their daily ritual of coffee and conversation. Unfortunately, this morning, their retreat was occupied. Dr. Romano was on the phone, yelling at someone from the Department of Child and Family Services: "Yes, I know she was temporarily admitted to the pediatric psych ward at Elgin. The key word here is 'temporary', as in 'subject to change'. She's been there a month now. Why isn't she in therapeutic foster care yet?"
'Better he screams at DCFS than us,' Haleh thought. She felt a little guilty for this reaction, knowing that social workers, like nurses, were the target of much verbal abuse.
A feminine voice on the other end of the phone seemed to be trying to explain something. Romano replied belligerently, "She's freakin' eight years old! How dangerous can she be? . . . Wait – No – Don't transfer me! Hello? No, I spoke to you earlier and you were completely useless."
Scowling, he slammed the phone down. The force of his slam made the receiver rebound from the phone and clatter to the floor. Haleh heard Chuny and Lydia titter as Romano bent to retrieve the phone. He turned on the nurses, snarling, "If you ladies have time for a coffee-klatch, you obviously don't have enough work to do. What, is every female in the so- called 'helping professions' either lazy or incompetent? Get busy!"
Chuny rolled her eyes as she and Lydia headed for the door with Romano close on their heels. Haleh lagged behind, putting her lunch into the refrigerator. As he left the lounge, Romano prodded impatiently, "That means you too, Aunt Jemima."
'No. He did NOT just call me that,' was Haleh's stunned reaction. Before she could even glare, Romano was gone. By the time she exited the lounge, he was halfway down the hall.
Walking in his wake toward the Admit area, Haleh mused that, despite the fact that he'd fired her on his first day in the ER, she usually got along reasonably well with Dr. Romano. In her long tenure as a nurse, she'd learned to ignore rude behavior. Her pride in herself and her profession was not of the prickly sort that needed to be constantly defended. But this time he'd gone too far. 'That boy needs a serious talking to . . .'
Haleh arrived in the Admit area just in time to hear Neela eloquently berate Frank for his bigoted remarks. Haleh was only recently beginning to warm to the young medical student, whose introversion sometimes made her come off as aloof. She smiled as Neela finished, ". . . All I expect from you in the future is silence. Blissful silence."
Romano, obviously enjoying Neela's rant, chuckled, "Aw, isn't she cute when she's self righteous?"
Neela shifted her gaze from Frank to Romano. Although the contempt in her eyes diminished, her voice was still cold as she responded quietly, "Please don't patronize me." Then she turned on her heel and left to attend to her patient.
Frank, clearly unfazed by the verbal lashing, smirked, "Must be somebody's time of month."
"Shut up, Frank," Romano growled. He seemed perturbed for a moment, frowning at the disapproval that didn't quite leave Neela's expression when she looked from Frank to him. Haleh scoffed inwardly as, instead of trying to analyze the possible reasons for this disapproval, Romano immediately took his discomfort out on the nearest target, "What the hell are all these boxes doing here?"
Frank explained, "Dr. Weaver decided to have the old residency applications for the past 10 years boxed up . . ."
"And, naturally, they have to be sitting right here, in the way. Is Weaver just *looking* for new ways to piss me off? No, don't answer that, of course she is." He grabbed some charts and stalked off before Frank could reply.
*****
A few hours later, Michael Gallant sat near the board, looking up a differential diagnosis in one of the reference volumes. For a change, the ER was not busy – thanks mostly to the tank-wielding madman circling outside. Between duties, many staff members clustered near the television, following the bizarre drama as it unfolded. Dr. Romano threw out the occasional gripe about "slackers worshiping the boob tube," but with few patients and ample staff to care for them, he really didn't have much to complain about.
Gallant had seen tanks up-close on many occasions, so he was a less entranced than his colleagues and could use the down-time more productively. He looked up from his research as a detective from the Chicago PD arrived in the ER, along with an agitated Kerry Weaver.
Dr. Romano, standing by the board, greeted, "Hey Kerry, wouldn't it be nice, just once, to turn on the TV and see a hospital-related disaster that DIDN'T take place at County? I mean, don'tcha think Mercy and Northwestern are due for an explosion or a plague of locusts or something?"
Dr. Weaver snorted, "Yeah. Why should we have all the fun?" before resuming her dour expression.
The detective explained that the police were deploying roadblocks to protect the hospital from the tank. Any reassurance this plan might have offered crumbled when the tank appeared on the TV screen, easily trampling the roadblock cars.
Glancing around, Gallant saw disappointment on his colleagues' faces. Dr. Romano, naturally, was openly derisive: "You people call that a roadblock? Two puny cars? Hey Frank, I figured out what you can do with those damn boxes. Morris, help Frank build a barricade in the ambulance bay."
"No, thank-you," Frank responded, without diverting his admiring gaze from the television, "By the way, your niece called. She wants you to call back if you don't get squished."
Dr. Weaver shot an embarrassed glance at the police detective and sighed, "Robert, stop ordering our employees to their deaths."
The detective went on to tell the gathered crowd that they hoped to use a succession of roadblocks to force the tank driver to run out of gas. This proposal was met with a resounding lack of enthusiasm, especially from Morris, who, Gallant noted, looked much more alert than usual.
As the detective left and the crowd broke up into murmuring cliques, Abby put in, "They're also bringing in a helicopter with a giant magnet."
Gallant was stunned at the hope that flashed across Morris' face: 'He really doesn't get it, does he?' Momentarily, the murmuring stopped, as everybody paused for a moment to gape at Morris' gullibility, then went back to their conversations.
Dr. Romano snarked at Abby, "Great idea – that way the weight of the tank can drag the chopper down to the ground and it can land on my . . . car. Yeah, thanks Abby, I needed that mental image."
Abby smirked in response to Romano's light flippant tone, but Gallant, sitting closer to the ER Chief, noticed his eyes cloud with anxiety. The televised coverage picked that moment to show a view of the tank from the vantage point of the news helicopter – complete with prominent audio of whooshing rotors. Romano blanched.
Hoping to provide a distraction, Gallant asked Romano, "Your niece who called – is that Jessie?"
Romano replied, "Huh? Yeah, Jessie. Oh, that's right, you met her. Bunch of colleges in Chicago are doing a program next week for high school students on spring break. Jess is attending, though she's convinced it will be 'lame'." He said the last word in the dismissive tone favored by many teens.
"Does she visit often?" Gallant inquired.
With an expression both rueful and mischievous, Romano answered, "Mmm, no. Jess likes to make people crazy. For some reason, her folks seem to think I'm a bad influence on her in that regard."
"I can't imagine why." Abby put in sarcastically.
Ignoring Abby, Romano went on, "She stayed with me for a couple of weeks last summer, after I got out of the hospital and her school was out. I wasn't supposed to drive after the surgery; Jess had just gotten her permit and would've driven from the garage to the mailbox if her parents let her. So that worked out well. Had to teach her to drive a stick, though . . ." He had a far-away look in his eyes and was smiling softly as if lost in the memory.
Gallant laughed, "Um, I'm fairly certain that when your doctor tells you not to drive after surgery, that means you're not supposed to give driving LESSONS either."
"Actually," Romano quipped, "Being heavily medicated and physically unable to grab the wheel from the passenger seat – these are probably assets when driving with teenagers."
Gallant grinned at the change in Romano's attitude: when he spoke about his niece, he seemed almost human.
Romano continued, "Normally she takes the train, but now she's trying to get me to drive up Friday night and bring her back here with me Saturday, and she won't explain why."
"Maybe she just wants to drive back?" Gallant offered.
"Nah, she's a devious little brat. She's up to something," Romano concluded fondly.
*****
The following Monday afternoon . . .
As Morris looked on, John Carter deftly threaded the plastic tube into the patient's throat. "It's in," he announced, then directed the resident, "OK, bag her."
Carter watched with satisfaction as the patient's pulse-ox climbed to an acceptable level. Leaving the room, he nodded to Morris, "She's all yours."
Morris had run into trouble intubating his patient. Romano came on the scene first, but he couldn't do the job himself one-handed, and his attempt to "talk" – that is, viciously harass – Morris through the procedure was a dismal failure. So Carter had to step in. He couldn't completely fault Romano, as Morris was not the most skillful resident John had seen. But belittling the guy during a procedure certainly wouldn't help. And sulkily leaving the room when Carter took over, as Romano had done, was hardly setting the best example for the students and residents.
'Heck, he's going to hate me now anyway; might as well talk to him about Mr. Dawson's meds,' Carter decided, referring to a patient whose prescription Romano had botched earlier.
John had to admit that Romano's error rate had improved considerably. Thinking back to when he left for Africa, he remembered Romano as a raging lunatic who didn't know what he was doing, didn't want to learn, and didn't care how many patients suffered as a result. If anyone but Kerry had put such an incompetent and unstable person in charge of the ER, Carter would have taken it as an insult to the importance of emergency medicine. As it was, he believed Kerry when she admitted that she didn't have any other place to put Romano at the moment, and he took it as a compliment to the rest of the ER staff that Kerry thought they could compensate for their chief's failings.
Romano had apparently learned a lot in the past year, and was now, in Carter's estimation, marginally competent in most areas of emergency medicine. But he was still bitter, insensitive, and lacking in social skills, and he took correction terribly. Additionally, the sorts of activities that were most appropriate given his physical and experiential limitations – the commonplace medical cases rather than tough cases or traumas – he regarded as beneath him.
Furthermore, though Romano rarely seriously endangered patients' lives nowadays, he still made enough errors that Carter felt the need to check up on him, which was awkward for both of them. Carter resented having to keep an eye on somebody who was supposed to be his superior. And, judging by his reactions, Romano resented the supervision.
Carter looked in Exam 3, where Romano often went to do paperwork. The door was open, the light was on, and the ER chief was sitting at the table near the wall. Carter started to enter, when he realized that Romano wasn't alone. Haleh stood to his right, speaking in a low, clear voice: ". . . I been a nurse for almost 30 years, 24 of them right here at County . . ."
"What do you want, a medal?" Romano interrupted. Carter snickered to himself, 'Wow – that was childish even for him.'
"I've got seniority. I can transfer to any almost any department I want to. Now, I like working the ER; it's been my home for a long time. I can even live with the fact that you're incredibly arrogant and look down on nurses."
Romano prompted irritably, "So, what's your problem?"
"If you can't address me proper, I'm leaving. I'm sure I won't be the last to go."
Romano looked surprised, then amused. "That's all?" he asked. Haleh nodded.
Noticing Carter in the doorway, Romano acknowledged him with a glance, then said to Haleh in a mocking tone, "How, exactly, do you want me to address you?"
Taking Carter's arrival as her cue to exit, Haleh replied, "Your mama raised you right, you'll figure it out." With a straight face but a twinkle in her eyes, she nodded at both men and left the room.
Romano scowled at Carter, who was grinning ear-to-ear, and groused, "You finished with Tank Boy?"
Carter could tell that Romano wasn't too angry. Yet. "Uh huh," he answered, "But I need to talk to you about Mr. Dawson . . ." He went on to explain why the particular course of medications that Romano had prescribed was inappropriate, given the patient's history of vascular disease. Dawson was still waiting on a blood glucose test, so there was time to change the meds.
As Carter spoke, Romano narrowed his eyes and fidgeted with some papers on the table. His behavior conveyed boredom and hostility. Finally, without admitting that he was wrong, he grudgingly agreed to substitute the medications Carter suggested.
Then, out of left field, he hit Carter with, "I can't believe you turned down a surgical residency for *this*. What happened? Did you realize you weren't going to cut it in surgery and figure you'd settle for being the big fish in a pond of small talents? I don't get it."
Carter smiled wryly, surmising that there was an actual question buried within the insult. Romano was probably just being a jerk, trying to get back at Carter for showing him up. But there was an intense look in his eyes that made Carter want to try to answer him. He replied, "I liked surgery as a technical exercise. But I wanted to have more meaningful relationships with my patients . . ."
Romano rejected this reason with a dismissive wave, "Give me a break. You work in a busy urban ER. Except for a few regulars – mostly pungent homeless losers – you see patients for maybe 20 minutes, then never see them again. Marcus Welby you ain't."
Carter frowned, frustrated. He knew that his decision had been the right one for him. Emergency Medicine let him connect with his patients in a way that surgery did not. But it was hard to explain why, even to himself. And, while Romano appeared strangely desperate for some kind of answer, he wasn't able to actually listen – charitably – to an explanation that wasn't cut and dry. In fact, Romano now seemed to be trying to dodge the discussion, though he'd started it himself, by bounding off toward the Exam room door.
Following his supervisor out into the Admit area, Carter offered, "At least the patients are conscious."
"You say that like it's a good thing," Romano deadpanned.
Carter laughed at the self-parody, hoping fervently that it WAS self- parody.
*****
Three hours later . . .
Susan Lewis arrived for her evening shift, 10 minutes late, flustered, and queasy. She stopped by the Admit desk, where Jerry and Sam were entertaining a visitor: Frank's daughter, a good-natured woman with Down Syndrome whom Susan had met briefly a few days ago.
"Hello, Dr. Lewis," Jerry greeted. "Frank's wife is visiting him in ICU, and Janey wanted to see where her Dad works, so we're giving her a little tour."
"My Daddy stand right here. He answers the phone," Janey offered proudly. She mimicked picking up the receiver, saying, "This's County General, how can I help you?"
Susan smiled, noting that Janey's phone manner was much nicer than her father's, and wondered, 'How could Frank have produced such a pleasant offspring?' As she chatted briefly with Jerry and Janey, Susan was peripherally aware of another conversation going on at the other end of the Admit desk: A girl was talking to Gallant, her elbows propped on the desk, red curls tipped with green bouncing as she cocked her head up toward him, saying, ". . . So, suppose I know I'm going to have an emergency. Can I make an appointment instead of having to wait, like, 12 hours?"
"If you know about it in advance, that kind of means it's not an 'emergency', right?" Gallant replied. From his tone, Susan could tell he was kidding around, not having a serious medical discussion.
Tauntingly, the girl suggested, "Alcohol. Poisoning."
'Is anybody around here actually working?' Susan grumbled, then caught herself, 'Oh God, I sound like Romano. Plus, it's not like I've picked up a chart yet either . . .'
She proceeded into the lounge to deposit her coat. Spying Robert at his locker she whined, "I know. I'm late. Don't start with me. Whoever named it 'morning sickness' must've been a man. If they called it as it is – 9 months of 24-hour crippling nausea – we'd never let 'em knock us up."
"And good evening to you to Dr. Lewis. You forgot to mention the hormone induced psychosis . . .," Romano smirked.
Susan made a face at him. Then, noticing that he was gathering his things to leave, she commented, "You're actually leaving more-or-less on time today."
Romano glanced around the lounge, which was empty except for them, then shot back dryly, "Yeah, uh, I've gotta get home before the latest addition to my household eats the couch."
Susan stared at him blankly for a moment, then, noticing that he was barely containing a silly grin, she figured it out. "You got a dog!" she exclaimed gleefully. "When? How?"
"Well, my niece kind of ambushed me. She got me to go with her to this doggie-rescue-group lady's house. They showed me a 5-month-old Bouvier-mix pup and Jessie guilted me about how sweet he was and how bad the prospects are for big dogs who don't get adopted young."
"You didn't have to say 'Yes'," Susan teased.
"Yeah, I did."
Susan asked, "How come?"
"Because he's *really* sweet and big dogs don't do well if they're not adopted young," Romano admitted sheepishly, obviously smitten.
Susan laughed at his little-boy smile, tickled by the fact that her hard ass boss could, on rare occasions, be a complete push-over. "What's his name? Do you have pictures?"
"His name's Rupert – they named him after a big shaggy guy on a TV show. And, yes, Jess took some pictures."
"Lemme see!" Susan demanded.
"I didn't bring them to work," Robert explained, as if that should be obvious.
"Have you seen my locker? It's like a shrine to Twopper."
"Yeah, but you're a GIRL," Robert mocked.
Laughing, Susan retorted, "Hmmm . . . I don't know if I should be offended at your sexism, or flattered that as I pass the big three-five somebody still thinks of me as a girl . . ."
He started to speak, undoubtedly ready to supply an obnoxious comment that would settle the matter, but Susan cut him off, grinning, "You know, Robert, on those rare occasions when you accidentally manage not to piss somebody off, maybe you should just go with it."
*****
Author's Notes: Thanks to all my kind reviewers! TV-crazy, I'm glad you like my unusual word choices. One of the joys of writing from the perspective of highly verbal people like Robert, Neela, and Elizabeth, is that I can let my underutilized vocabulary come out to play.
I saw "The Student" last week -- Aaaaah! When did Neela become a 4th year med student? I thought she was 3rd year. I'll have to slightly revise Chapter 7 accordingly. Otherwise, I don't plan on including the events of this episode. As you can tell from this chapter, Susan is pregnant. But she's not as far along as she seems to be on the show. I'm assuming that she was not pregnant in late November, when Chuck suggested making a few "dependents". Thus, she shouldn't be due 'till September.
Sorry about the slow updates. I'm a perfectionist :-)