CHAPTER 5: Occupational Health
09:30: 16 hrs post poisoning. HR 88/NSR, SPO2 100%, RR 16
"What the hell did you three let yourselves be dragged into this time?" Matty demanded. Mac, Jack, and Riley had returned to the Phoenix Foundation around the same time their director was returning from Supermax. The instructions relayed to the three of them from the Phoenix chauffeur had been, in no uncertain terms, that as long as MacGyver was capable of standing upright and walking forward under his own power, the three of them were to be in her office when she returned.
It was something Mac had happily obliged her. He'd managed a few hours' sleep on the rest of the train ride in, and while he still felt basically like crap, some of the exhaustion had lifted.
"See, I'm not sure 'let' is really the most accurate term for what happened..." Jack started to explain.
"Then what would be, Jack?" Matty asked, rounding on him. "Because there's a pun about intelligence work I'm thinking of throwing around." Jack was quiet, but angry. Matty took a breath, holding them all in suspense for several more seconds.
"As it stands, I met with Murdoc this morning. He basically confirmed what his letter said. He's interested in MacGyver's death because he believes it will lead to his release. So as of right now, we have to assume that all threats are viable. He very well may have someone he can communicate with on the outside. Prison officials are checking into that as we speak. They are also further restricting his access to the outside world and varying his schedule. In the event a breakout is staged, he will not take part." MacGyver noticed she didn't quite mention the terms on which a breakout would be staged.
"What about Mac?" Jack asked.
"We have a hospital room secured for him at GenMetro. An ambulance will be here to take him over as soon as we finish this conversation." Matty confirmed.
"I can't go to GenMetro now." Mac protested.
"Mac, you kinda look like crap." Riley started.
"I can deal with that. I can deal with feeling like crap too as long as I'm not dying of it." He protested. Jack looked unconvinced. "Honestly, guys, if I walked into an emergency department right now, they'd laugh at me. My vitals are stable, there's nothing going on symptomatically I can't manage from here. And I'm much more useful here anyway, working in the Phoenix lab and trying to figure out what's in my system from this end. Once there's a treatment plan in place, or my life is actually threatened, I promise I'll go to the hospital. But until then, I'd just be taking up a bed from someone who needs it." Mac finished.
"How long did you work on that?" Jack asked.
"Longer than I care to admit." Mac said. "But I think even you guys can agree I'd be more helpful here."
Matty scowled. "I don't agree with it, at all, but I'll allow it." She paused. "What I can't allow is for you to determine what a 'life threat' is. If you want to stay here, you'll check in with the occupational health nurse every 6 hours. It will be her determination on when you go to the hospital. Which you will happily oblige."
"Reasonable." Mac agreed, nodding slowly.
"Good." Matty said. "I've already called. She's expecting you." Mac looked puzzled.
"Oh please." Matty said, rolling her eyes. "How long have we known each other? I had to show the board I gave you the option of going to a hospital right away, but let's face it, it's you."
"Thanks, Matty."
"Go. Now. Before I change my mind."
On her second anniversary at the Phoenix Foundation, Gayle Sawyer had gotten an elaborate tattoo of a cross on her forearm. The tattoo had started as a recognition of her faith, but she'd quickly had it amended to include the winged Caduceus under one of the cross's arms and the Star of Life beneath the other.
It quickly became as much a symbol of her callings as it was one of rebellion against the industry built up around them. Sitting where it did, just below the reasonable end of a scrub sleeve, the image cut her off from any type of hospital employment for the rest of her years. A fact she was entirely comfortable with, even if it made her mother, herself an emergency department nurse in Virginia, very, very concerned.
The next year, she'd had her septum repierced and had dyed her hair an obnoxious blue-green tye-dye, largely because the Phoenix Foundation gave no craps about dress code and she felt it looked good on her. She liked walking out of work, a butch thirty-something, deceptively fit, wrapped in men's black scrubs with her hair and tattoos glaringly visible, to the reactions of people who by contract couldn't be as creative with their bodies.
The Phoenix Foundation paid triple what any of her hospital employers had, and the job, though officially as the head of occupational health and safety, somehow managed to satisfy her need for adrenalin with its near-constant lab accidents, lockdown situations, and occasional field work.
And the Phoenix Foundation had a pretty cool looking setup for their employee health clinic too. It was a cement basement room with a front triage area good for blood draws and flu shots, and behind that, separated by a wall of cubbies, was a row of three cots separated by curtains. In the back was a wall of hospital-style supply tubs full of first aid gear. A dynamap and an emergency kit with oxygen, a BVM, IV supplies, AED, and basic airway equipment sat opposite the cots.
It looked like an extraordinarily small hospital floor, but Gayle had never really understood the extent to which the organization had gone to make it one. Overall, she decided, the place was good if you got sick halfway through the workday and needed to lie down for an hour before driving home, or if you were in cardiac arrest. Anyone in between would go to GenMetro or get a note saying to follow up with their primary care provider.
Galye spun around in her office chair, forcing a manila file folder back into a cubby behind her desk. The file was labeled simply as "MacGyver" with the first name, save a lonely "A," scratched out in permanent marker, and an employee number.
Like those of other field agents, it was a file she'd been familiar with for some time. Usually, this familiarity came in the form of flu season vaccination campaigns or travel health needs. In A. MacGyver's case that was of course true, with the added bonus that he also frequently called her in the middle of the night for gunshot wounds and snakebites.
His knock on her office door came exactly ten minutes after she'd been told to expect it, and exactly five before she would have called Matty to tattle.
"You're late, MacGyver." Gayle greeted.
"Needed to request some lab space." Mac explained. "How're things?"
"Around here? Nothing horrible." She shrugged. "Well, one of my favorite agents just got poisoned by a psychopath and now won't go to the hospital, so he's probably going to kick it, but other than that..." She pushed herself out from behind her desk to face him confrontationally in the doorway.
"You ever considered going into pediatrics with that level of tact?" Mac asked.
"Been there, done that, if you count emergency work. See, the kids would respect it. The parents would about kill me." She shook her head and then turned away from him to drag the dynamap up to the desk. "Its why I'm so glad Matty and I have similar opinions on internal customer service."
Mac rolled his eyes. "Its good to see you again, Gayle."
"Good to see you too, Mac. Go ahead and sit there for me a second, will you?" Mac sat in the chair across her desk and she applied the dynamap's blood pressure cuff.
"So I know you've got those fancy stickers and stuff on you, and I've been collecting that information since your phone's been sending it out, but I like my own machine." She explained. "Plus, mine takes blood pressure." She let the machine automatically result his vitals and wrote it down on a card for his file.
10:08: BP 122/78, HR 75, RR 18, SPO2 100%
"So you've been collecting everything?" Mac asked, remembering the previous evening. "Do you know what happened last night?"
"Maybe" Gayle said. "What happened?"
"Jack woke me up kind of frantic, said the machine said my heart rate was low." Mac reported, more curious than concerned. Gayle shook her head.
"The overnight guy saw that too. Most likely what happened is you're a reasonably young, fit guy, who's heart rate naturally falls below what the computer is programmed to make a fuss about." Gayle explained. "Does that every night without a problem, just that most of the time your concerned friends aren't watching your monitor."
"I was kinda hoping it would give some insight as to what's wrong with me." Mac said, a little disappointed.
"We'll keep checking them. So far, they're perfect, and that's good, because usually they're the last things to change if something starts going wrong." Gayle explained. "Besides, a single set of vitals tells me nothing. You're a scientist, you know its not the data but the trend that makes the study. We'll keep rechecking. In the meantime, I'll take some blood, and I need you to tell me everything that's happened."
In the end, there wasn't a lot to explain. She took a look at the site left by the syringe dart, and updated his emergency information and medical history in case of an unexpected emergency. He described the lingering feeling of nausea and non-specific malaise that didn't feel especially deadly, but that he was sure was the first effects of the poison. Gayle kicked the trash can out from under her desk towards Mac as he talked.
"I can't give you any meds right this second, but give me half an hour or so and I can get an order from my medical direction at GenMetro." She explained. "We've got some things here."
"I don't need anything." Mac said quickly. He felt bad, but not bad enough to actually take anything prescribed by a doctor. Not yet, at least.
"I'm talking zofran and tylenol, Mac, not dilaudid." She clarified. "And its not like you'd be saving me a call. I report everything to him anyway." She fished something out of her scrub pocket and handed it to him. Alcohol wipes. Mac looked puzzled. "I don't like you thinking you're the only one who improvises crap around here. If you start feeling like you're going to hurl, try these." She paused. "And by 'try' I mean smell. It helps, swear to whatever deity you hold dear, but I can't tell you how many people have tried to suck on them."
She took his blood, then reminded him to tell her if he took anything himself or if anything changed, to keep drinking water, and to come back in 6 hours along with the appropriate threats that she would call Matty, etc… etc… if he didn't.
She watched him leave. He would come to his own conclusion, and, she told herself, she was comfortable with that. She just hoped he would make the decision to go to the hospital before she was in a position to force the issue. She prepared the tubes of blood to send to an offsite lab, scrawled her note into the paper chart, then copied it word for word into an electronic version on the computer, which she sent to her medical direction before calling him to report the situation in its entirety. It wasn't like the busy work was any less on the occupational health end of things, she thought.