Through the cubicle’s curtains she looked like a middle-aged Doris Day, pink housedress buttoned to the neck and every blond hair sprayed in place. But her posture spoiled the effect. She sat cross-legged on the emergency-room stretcher, bent forward like an ancient pagan at morning ablutions. As I watched, she placidly, almost dutifully, delivered into the plastic basin cradled in her lap a stream of clear yellow vomit.
I looked around for Terry to get a bit of the story. Terry was one of the best residents--low-key, smart, and very conscientious.
Hey, thanks for letting me grab lunch, I said. Anything up?
Not much. Just this patient of Dr. Morgan’s. I saw her quickly, but he had already called Dr. Summers, the gastroenterology consult, so I sort of backed off.
Terry sounded apologetic, but she shouldn’t have. Morgan was the chief of medicine, and the lines of responsibility blur a bit when private patients show up in the emergency room. This was the boss’s patient. The fewer cooks in the kitchen, the better.
