The Devil Wears Scrubs (19 page)

“By the way, Jane,” she says.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your white coat.”

I finger the stiff material of
the coat covering my scrubs. It’s a bit big and the sleeves come down nearly to the tip of my thumbs. “What about it?”

“Look at it!” Alyssa snaps at me.

I look at the coat.
“Um…”

“Look how wrinkled it is!” she says.
“I would say it’s at an unacceptable level of wrinkles. Is this the level of professionalism you want to show?”

Is she kidding me?
Am I supposed to be spending my time
ironing
my white coat? Seriously, it’s not
that
wrinkled.

“And what’s this?” Alyssa says, pointing at a faded yellow spot on my left sleeve, about a centimeter in diameter.

“I guess it’s a stain,” I admit.

Alyssa just shakes her head, as if she is too horribly disappointed for words.
But what am I supposed to do? The hospital only provided me with two white coats. I can’t launder them on a daily basis. Not when I’m also cleaning the bathroom every other day.

I just have to face the fact that no matter what I do, I can never live up to Alyssa’s standards.

Hours awake: 13

Chance of quitting: 65%

Even in my dreams, I am working. You’d think I could take six or seven hours off from my job, but apparently I can’t.

In my dream, I’m in the hospital, working up a new admission while Alyssa watches me.
The patient has pain and I ask where the pain is.
Everywhere,
the patient tells me. I ask him to be more specific.
Everywhere in my body,
he clarifies. I try to write down his comment but I can’t find my notes. Or a pen.

You have to be more prepared, Jane,
Alyssa snaps at me. I apologize and start searching for a pen in my pockets, but just keep pulling out packets and packets of gauze while Alyssa continues to scream at me.

Unbelievable.
Even in my dreams, I can’t stand up to Alyssa and tell her what I really think of her.

I wake up from my post-call nap feeling completely disoriented as usual.
I probably would have slept well into the evening, but I get woken up by my cell phone ringing. I grab for it, and mumble, “’Lo?”

A familiar voice says into the phone: “I can pick you up in one hour.
Just name the restaurant.”

It’s Sexy Surgeon.
I texted him my triumph in the urine tox, and he’s ready to make good on his end of the bet: buying me dinner. Except I am so damn tired. “Oh,” I say.

“I found at least five restaurants in New York that all have chairs and waiters,” he says.
“We can go wherever you want. Sky’s the limit, babe.”

I groan.
“I’m so tired. I just want pizza.”

“Jane, you are my kind of woman.”

An hour later, Ryan and I are heading out to the nearest pizza joint. Even though this isn’t exact how I pictured our romantic evening together, I have to admit, he made the effort. For one thing, he’s not wearing scrubs. He’s wearing a navy blue T-shirt and faded blue jeans, and I can tell he’s showered and shaved recently. I can smell his aftershave and it’s making me a little giddy.

Luckily, the closest pizza parlor is actually very good.
I must be hungry because I can smell the oil and cheese halfway down the block, and my stomach rumbles. As we walk in, they’re pulling a fresh pie out of the oven and the cheese is all hot and bubbly. I order two slices of cheese pizza at the counter and Ryan gets three. There are all sorts of crazy toppings on the pizzas, like one slice has ziti on it, but I feel like a really good pizza doesn’t need anything but the pizza.

“You’re a pizza snob, I bet,” Ryan says to me as we settle into our seats.
  He slides his three paper plates of pizza onto the red-and-white-checked tablecloth.

“What does that mean?”
(I actually know what he means. I am totally a pizza snob.)

“You’ve got to have
your pizza the classic New York-style, or else it won’t do,” he says. “Like you probably think Chicago deep dish is disgusting.”

“Well,” I say, “not
disgusting
, but… well…”

Ryan grins at me.
“Pizza snob.”

I huff at him and take a bite of my pizza
, which is still piping hot from the oven. I can tell that I’m going to polish this off in like two minutes. I try to slow down for Ryan’s sake.

“Where are you from?” he asks me.
He takes a guess: “Brooklyn?”

“No, Queens.”

Ryan lifts his hand in the air so I can high-five him. Which I do, mostly as an excuse to touch him.

“Why am I high-fiving you?” I ask.

He points to his chest. “I’m from Fresh Meadow.”

“Jamaica,” I say.

“Tell me,” he says, “when you say that to most people, do they ask you how come you don’t have a Caribbean accent?”

I laugh.
“Yes!”

Ryan shakes his head.
“People are so dumb.”

I find out from Ryan that his father is a lawyer and his mother a teacher.
He’s got two siblings, an older brother and an older sister.

“My sister Maggie went the teacher route too,” he says.
“She’s got two kids and lives in Long Island.”

“How about your brother?”
I ask.

Ryan hesitates.
“Sean is… still figuring things out.”

For some reason, I get the sense that Ryan is being kind of evasive when he talks about his family.
I can’t imagine why, because the Reillys seem pretty picture perfect compared to what I grew up with. He certainly has nothing to be ashamed of.

“By the way,” Ryan says to me
as he finishes off the crust of his first slice. “What can I do to make you smile a little more at work? Seriously, you walk around looking like someone just died.”

I jut out my chin.
“Maybe someone
did
just die.”

“It’s a hospital, Jane.
Not a morgue.”

“Well, sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says. “I just feel bad you’re so unhappy.”

“I
am
an intern,” I point out. “Weren’t you miserable as an intern?”

“No way.”
Ryan looks me in the eyes and I can tell he means it. “As long as I got to be in the OR, I was happy. I freakin’ love operating.”

“Goody for you.”

“Come on,” he says. “I know you’re in
Medicine
and all, but you can’t be unhappy
all
the time. I mean, why’d you go to med school in the first place?”

“To help people,” I answer, almost automatically.

“Okay, liar,” Ryan laughs.
“I’m not the admissions committee, you know. You can be honest.”

Can I?
I study Ryan’s face and decide to trust him. “My dad left my mom when I was little,” I say. “She was broke my whole childhood, and… she didn’t want that to happen to me.”

Ryan is quiet for a minute.
“If that’s the reason you went to med school,” he says, “no wonder you’re miserable.”

“Gee, thanks.”
I throw a crumbled up napkin at him and he ducks. “It’s not entirely awful. I mean, I really do like helping people. I like knowing that the purpose of my job is to make sick people well. Most of the time it’s just routine and following algorithms, but every once in a while, you get to really make a difference.”

“You sound like you’re in a pageant,” he comments.
He raises the pitch of his voice mockingly: “
My name is Jane McGill and I want to make sick people well
.”

I throw a second napkin at him and this one hits him square in the chest
, leaving behind a glob of tomato sauce. “Hey!” he protests.

“You’re obnoxious.”

Ryan grins. “You totally had that coming. Anyway, you know you love it.”

Gah
! I hate that I find him so sexy when he’s been a complete jackass. And I hate it worse that he knows it.

After we finish off our pizza
slices (and go back for seconds… thank God scrubs have drawstrings), Ryan insists on walking me home. When we get to my front door, he hesitates.

“Do you want to come in?” I offer.
I tug playfully at the sleeve of his shirt. “I’ll let you get to second base.”

His eyes light up.
“Yeah? I thought I lost that bet.”

“We can call it a draw.”

We fall into the apartment together, kissing and groping wildly at each other. Funny how I’m not tired at all anymore. And if Julia comes out and interrupts this, I swear to God I will murder her.

Short Call

Going into short call, Connie has won the game.

“Winning the game” means she managed to discharge all her patients.
I don’t know how she does it. Maybe she has some magic tonic she feeds to everyone to get them well. Maybe if Mrs. Jefferson were her patient, she’d have grown her leg back by now.

Although I
do end up getting some amazing news on arrival to the hospital. The social worker Robyn greets me on the floor and says to me, “Jane! I got visiting nursing services covered for Mrs. Jefferson!”

I can hardly believe my ears.
“You didn’t!”

“I did!” Robyn cries.
I’ve worked with Robyn many times in the past month and she always seems a little jaded and dejected. But now her lined eyes are lit up. “It’s all arranged!”

I stand there, savoring this information.
I may actually get to discharge my rock star.  Wow.

“That’s wonderful,” I say.
“You’re amazing, Robyn.”

Robyn buffs her fingernails on her shirt.
“Just in a day’s work,” she laughs. Then she adds, “The only snag is that she still needs IV antibiotics for her infection, right?”

I nod.
“Three more weeks.”

“Does she have a PICC line?”

A PICC line is a central line that is usually inserted for long term antibiotics, because it can stay in place longer than other kinds of lines. Mrs. Jefferson has been getting her antibiotics through an IV in her arm, but she definitely can’t keep that at home.

“I’ll arrange it,” I promise.

County Hospital has a special nurse who inserts PICC lines.
I’ve heard you have to sell your soul to get her to come insert one, but at this point, I’m willing to make the trade.

Mrs. Jefferson is even happier about her
discharge than I am, which is probably appropriate since she’s the one who’s actually going home. When I walk into her room, she bursts into tears.

“I can’t wait, Dr. Jane,” she sniffles.
“I just want to play with my grandkids again.”

Each of her grandchildren has drawn
her a card, and they’re plastered on the walls around her room. By the backwards writing on the card, I’d guess none of them is much older than kindergarten age.

“I’m really happy for you,” I tell her.

“Thank you so much, Dr. Jane,” she says. “Thank you for everything you done for me. I’ll never forget it.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, even though I didn’t actually do anything.
Robyn is the real hero. I’ve just been a glorified babysitter.

_____

It might make sense to give Connie more
patients on short call to even out our discrepancy, but Connie’s already made it very clear how she feels about that. So the first patient of the morning goes to me.

The patient’s name is Jean Rogers.
She came to us from a nursing home with altered mental status, meaning she’s tired and confused as hell. She was diagnosed in the ER with a urinary tract infection but she hasn’t perked up yet despite a few doses of antibiotics. So it’s up to us to figure out the mystery.

When I get to the hallway where Mrs. Rogers’s room is located, I smell something terrible.
I lift my head, sniffing just hard enough to identify the smell. I have no idea what it is.

That’s when I see a nurse emerge from Mrs. Rogers’s room wearing a facemask.
I raise my eyebrows at the nurse.

“Is she on droplet precautions?”
I ask.  Droplet precautions are used when a patient has an infection colonizing the mucous membranes of their nose or mouth, which thereby spreads into the air.  It basically means everyone who enters the room has to wear a mask.

The nurse shakes her head at me.
“No, it just smells really bad in there. I couldn’t take it. I thought I was going to throw up.”

Well, that’s just great.

I brace myself as I enter the room. The stench hits me like a punch in the nose.

There are a lot of really bad smells in the hospital.
If I had to rate the worst of them, I would do so accordingly:

1.
       
Clostridium difficile colitis, which causes a really smelly diarrhea

2.
      
Rectal gangrene

3.
      
Vomit

4.
     
Gastrointestinal bleed

5.
      
Rectal abscess

But I literally have never smelled anything this awful before in my life. I look at Mrs. Rogers, a withered, wrinkled body lying in the hospital bed. There’s no way she weighs more than a hundred pounds soaking wet. How is it possible such a powerful smell could come from her?

All I know is that nearly all the really bad smells come from the rectal area, so Alyssa will have my head if I don’t check her down there.

Dallas, I’m going in. At least this time I’ve got my guaiac cards.

_____

I have
literally checked every orifice of Mrs. Rogers’s body and I can’t identify where that smell is coming from. And it’s not going away. If anything, the smell is growing in intensity. It seems like a distinct possibility that in another 24 hours, the whole hospital will smell like Mrs. Rogers. In 48 hours, the entire city. In 72 hours, the entire world.

And only I, Jane McGill, slightly incompetent medicine intern, have the power to stop it.

The first thing I do is call the nursing home to get Mrs. Rogers’s old records (I know, Medicine is so glamorous). We need to get a little more history. For all I know, she’s smelled like this her whole life.

“We’ll send you the records right away,” the woman at the nursing home promises me.

“Thanks, I really appreciate it,” I say.

I run to the bathroom to scrub my hands really well.
I keep an eye out for Ryan, because I don’t want to run into him right now. I feel certain the stench of Mrs. Rogers is clinging to my clothes and hair. I’m going to have to douse myself in Julia’s organic bleach to get rid of it.

When I return from the bathroom, the records have not yet been faxed.
I start writing up my note on Mrs. Rogers, keeping an eye on the fax machine, but still nothing. Finally, I decide to give them another call.

“Hello,” I say.
“This is Dr. McGill at County Hospital. I’m waiting for the records on Jean Rogers.”

A bored female voice says into the phone, “Who?”

“Jean Rogers. She’s a resident at your facility.”

“Who did you talk to before?” the woman asks.

I stare at the phone. “I have no idea.”

“When you talk to someone on the phone, you need to ask them for their name,” the woman says accusingly.

“Well, how many of you are there over there?” I retort.

The woman seems none too pleased with me right now.
“I’ll see if we can send those records to you again.”

“And what’s
your
name?” I start to ask, but she’s already hung up on me. Damn. How am I supposed to get peoples’ names if they just hang up on me?

An hour later, I still have not received any faxes from the nursing home.
And the nurses are spraying air freshener all over the hallway where Mrs. Rogers’s room is located. This is getting serious.

I call the nursing home again and this time I get another unfamiliar voice answering.
I wish I had the names of any of the people I’d spoken to so far.

“This is Dr. McGill,” I say in a voice that, I have to admit, is not loaded with patience.
“This is the third time I’m calling to get the medical records faxed over on Jean Rogers.”

What the woman on the other line says to me manages to completely shock me: “Oh, we don’t have a fax machine.”

I stare at the phone. “What?”

How is it possible in this day and age to not have a fax machine?
Do they also treat patients with leeches? Am I calling them on their telegraph?

“We don’t have a fax machine,” the woman repeats cheerfully.

“But…” I sputter. “The last two people I talked to said they were faxing the records over!”

“Faxing or
sending
?” she asks me. “We generally mail out medical records.”

Holy crap.
Are they serious? They really expect me to wait like five to seven days to get the records on Mrs. Rogers? This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. The smell will surely have killed her by then.

“Do you want me to mail those out to you?” she asks.

“No, don’t bother,” I say.

I go find Alyssa to report on the situation to her.
One thing I know is that at least this isn’t my fault. I did my best to get those records. I called three times. They don’t have a fax machine—surely she can’t blame me for that.

I locate Alyssa in the resident lounge and explain the situation with Mrs. Rogers.
I watch her rolling her eyes and I have a really bad feeling. “There’s nothing I can do,” I insist. “They don’t even own a fax machine. Can you believe that?”

“Nothing you can do,” Alyssa repeats.
“Is that really true, Jane? Is there absolutely nothing you can do to get those records?”

“Uh…” I really
wrack my brain, trying to think of a possible way to get the records. It mostly involves some sort of telepathy. “I don’t… think so…”

“Think harder,” Alyssa says.
“How could you get those records rather than just throwing up your hands and giving up?”

When it becomes clear that I have no idea how to answer the question, Alyssa finally takes pity on me and
clues me in: “You can go to the nursing home and pick up the records yourself.”

I can?

“I’m allowed to leave the hospital?” I ask her. “You said I can
never
leave the hospital while on call.”

Alyssa shakes her head.
“Well,
I’m
here to cover you. And the nursing home is only five blocks away.”

So it is.

It’s actually a huge relief to get to leave the hospital.
I toss my white coat in the lounge, rescuing only my badge, my pager, and the release of information for Jean Rogers. I figure I’ll look like an idiot walking around the streets of Manhattan in a long white coat. Plus, it’s about a million degrees out and super muggy.

I take my time walking over to the nursing home.
I never ever get to leave the hospital while on duty, so now I’m really milking it. I know the first thing Alyssa will ask when I get back will be, “What took you so long?” But it’s worth it.

Maybe I’ll get a hot dog.

The nursing home is a dreary place with the dirtiest front steps I’ve ever seen. It looks like at least one animal and/or person has peed on them. The awning of the building is covered with bird poop, and has long rips in it. The lettering in the sign “Nursing Home” is worn away at the edge, so that it just says “Nursing Ho.”

Nursing Ho.
Heh.

I march through the entrance
, clutching the information release form in my sweaty hand. I’d been hoping for a burst of air conditioning to greet me inside, but instead I realize it’s even hotter inside than outside. I wipe away a few strands of sweaty hair that are stuck to the back of my neck.

I scan the corridor of the dreary building, hoping to locate someone who could help me.
I see there’s a front desk, so I move in that direction, my clogs squeaking loudly on the floor. There’s a middle-aged woman sitting there, fanning herself as she talks animatedly to a youngish guy wearing blue scrubs. The guy in scrubs is carrying a giant cake with the lettering: “Happy Birthday Dad!”

That’s kind of sweet, coming to surprise your dad with a big cake like that.
What a nice guy.

“Jane?”

I look up from the cake, and surprise surprise!, I’m face to face with none other than Sexy Surgeon. I stare at him, unsure what to say. What the hell is he doing here? I can’t imagine
he
was sent here to retrieve records on a patient. And what’s the deal with that cake he’s holding?

“Hi,” I say.

We’re still just staring at each other. He isn’t volunteering the reason why he’s here, and I’m too stunned to say anything to him.

It’s pretty awkward until the woman at the desk barks, “Can I help you, Miss?”

“Oh,” I say. “Um, I’m trying to get the medical records on a patient of mine.”

The woman gives me a dirty look, which is a stark contrast from the
googly eyes she was making at Ryan a minute ago. Sometimes I’d love to be a hot surgeon guy.