| I stood in the corner of the resus bay and repeated the history. “Early breast cancer–curative intent–chemo–only three–a collapse–one of our own–she is not supposed to die.” Not like this. The emergency team performed their wellrehearsed ballet. Through the gap in the curtains I could see the waving of arms—my colleagues trying to save her. I saw the endotracheal tube, the Seldinger wires, and the involuntary flinch of defibrillation. A kindly nurse suggested that someone take that distressed relative over there to one of the counseling rooms. “That’s not a relative. That’s her oncologist,” came the reply. Liz was taken to intensive care and I went to wait for her husband to arrive. I stood at the front entrance of the old hospital where the words faith, hope, and charity were carved into its stone façade. How would I explain this to him? I had carried a perverse want that she was septic, or there had been a pulmonary embolism—something reversible, some twist of bad luck. But her heart was barely moving. Perhaps this was viral myocarditis or some blameless other reality? The chemotherapy order had been checked and rechecked. Had I made a mistake? The handwriting was legible but not the elegant cursive of my youth. Decades of doctoring had forced evolution to a script that was efficient but ugly. Still the order and the doses given were correct. |