Page 123 of Clinically Bewitched
“Trauma Bay 3,” Nathan said. “They’re running tests.”
“What tests?” Stevie interrupted, and suddenly she wasn’t Stevie the spiritual healer or Stevie the billionaire’s wife. She was Dr. Stephanie Malpas, MD, PhD, medical researcher, and her voice had the same sharp precision I used in the OR.
“CT, MRI, full metabolic panel, cardiac enzymes, tox screen.”
“Vitals?”
“BP 90 over 60 on arrival, currently 95 over 65. Heart rate 110, now down to 98. Respiratory rate 16. O2 sat 96 percent on room air.”
“GCS?”
“13 on arrival, 14 now.”
“Neuro deficits?”
“None apparent. Equal pupils, reactive to light. Follows commands. No focal weakness.”
Stevie fired off questions with the efficiency of someone who had spent decades in medicine, and Nathan answered each one with the same professional precision.
And I just stood there.
Useless.
I was a neurosurgeon. I was supposed to be the expert. I was supposed to know what questions to ask, what tests to order, and what diagnoses to consider. But I hadn’t asked any of those questions. I’d just stood there, paralyzed, while my mother-in-law, who hadn’t practiced clinical medicine for over a decade, took charge.
“Has Morrison reviewed the imaging?” Stevie asked.
“He’s in there now,” Nathan said.
“I want to see it.”
“Dr. Malpas—”
“I have privileges at this hospital,” Stevie said, her voice brooking no argument. “And that’s my daughter in there. I want to see the damn imaging.”
Nathan looked at me.
I said nothing.
What could I say?
That I was the husband but hadn’t thought to ask about the imaging? That I was a neurosurgeon but had been too terrified to think clinically? That I was supposed to be the one in control but was falling apart?
“Of course,” Nathan said finally. “I’ll have someone pull it up for you.”
Stevie nodded, then turned to me.
For a moment, her professional mask slipped, and I saw the fear underneath. The same fear I was feeling. “She’s going to beokay,” she said, but it sounded like she was trying to convince herself as much as me.
I wanted to believe her. I wanted to trust that the universe had a plan, that everything would work out, that Athena would be fine. But I was a doctor. I knew too much.
I saw too many cases where “fine” wasn’t the outcome.
I lost too many patients who should have survived, and the thought that Athena might be one of them—NO!
No, no, no!
Not her.
