a silent prayer for him as he walked back to the emergency room.
Beverly was on duty that morning, and she met him as he entered. Stereotypical as it seemed, Beverly had a quick, impulsive temperament to match her flaming red hair. At the moment, the color of her face also matched her hair.
“Dr. Bower, there’s a very obnoxious patient in three who has threatened to sue if I don’t personally escort you to see him now.” She lowered her voice. “His father is Bailey Little.”
At Lukas’s blank expression, she explained, “You know, Bailey Little, the attorney. He’s the president of our hospital’s board of directors.”
“So the son is in the E.R. throwing his father’s weight around?”
“Yes. I know you want to get to that funeral.”
“But you don’t think this one can wait.” All he needed was a difficult patient whom Dr. Camp might refuse to take over when he arrived. It had been hard enough to convince someone to let him off a couple of hours, especially since he wasn’t sure himself why he felt the need to attend the funeral of a stranger.
He glanced at his watch. It was only eight o’clock. If all the ancillary services would cooperate, he could take care of this patient and still make the service.
“Okay, Beverly, what’s his complaint?”
Beverly lowered her voice. “He’s out of his stuff, if you ask me.”
Lukas raised a brow at her. “Drug seeker?”
She nodded, folding her arms across her chest, her thick, red brows drawn together in a disapproving glower.
“Okay, I’ll come willingly. What does he say is the problem?”
“Headache. Again.”
“Again? He’s been in for this before?”
“Yes. At least twice when I was on duty, and I think he’s been here a lot more than that, according to the secretary.”
“Which doctor treated him?”
“Dr. George.”
“And he got the drugs?”
“Dr. George believed his story. Dwayne is a good actor. Besides, Dr. George is good friends with Dwayne’s father. Dwayne even calls him ‘Uncle Jarvis.’”
“Pull Mr. Little’s old chart, will you?”
“Sure thing.” She turned to go, then hesitated and turned back. “I wouldn’t cross this guy, Dr. Bower, not unless you can afford to lose your job. I know I can’t.”
“Thanks for the warning, Beverly.”
She watched him for a moment. “I mean it. I heard about you turning in Dr. George for the needlestick. Bailey Little can get us both in trouble, and I’ve got kids to support.”
Lukas frowned. “You’re not going to get into trouble for doing your job.”
He found the clipboard for room three at the central desk, then added a copy of a special form he had brought with him from KC.
The patient who perched on the doctor’s exam stool in the darkened room didn’t look like a typical drug abuser. Lukas wondered if Beverly had just been irritated by the man’s personality. The young man, in his early to midtwenties, sat cradling his forehead in his hands. He wore a dark brown suit. His hair was short and neat. He looked clean. He glanced up when Lukas entered, then put his head back down and groaned.
“Hello, Mr. Little, I’m Dr. Bower.” Lukas placed the clipboard down on the counter and remained standing. “I hear you have a headache this morning.”
“Yeah, Dr. Bower.” The man continued to rub his forehead. “It’s the worst I’ve ever had.”
“Then you’ve had headaches like this before? Any nausea associated with them? Fever?”
“I’ve had some before, but not as bad as this. I’m puking my guts out.”
Lukas knew from checking the chart that the man’s temperature was normal. “Have you ever seen a doctor for headaches before, Mr. Little? Ever had a CT head scan?”
“Not yet.” The man leaned forward and pulled a card out of his back pocket. “Here. I’m supposed to go see a Dr. Pippin next week in Springfield. He’s a neurologist.”
Lukas took the card and glanced at it. It was a blank appointment card, one anybody could pick up from a front desk of a busy office. Lukas was not impressed.
“What time is your appointment? Maybe I can call for an earlier—”
“I don’t have an appointment yet, okay?” the man snapped. “Look, I’ve had this thing for two days, and it’s getting worse. Are you going to help me, or—”
Beverly rushed into the room. “Dr. Bower, we just put an asthma patient in six who sounds really tight. She’s not panicky or anything, but—”
“I’ll be there.” Lukas reached for the clipboard.
“Hey, hold it a minute!” Little came halfway off his stool. “What about me? I want to know about my headache.”
“Sorry, Mr. Little, I’ll be back,” Lukas soothed. “We have an emergency.” He knew the irony of his words would be lost on this guy.
In exam room six, a woman in her forties sat forward on the bed with her legs dangling over the side. She wore a clear face mask attached by six feet of tubing to an oxygen regulator on the wall at the head of the bed. Lukas saw that her oxygen was running at 12 liters. Good. Beverly knew her stuff. The patient wore a pulse ox gauge on her right forefinger. It looked like a plastic clothespin with a thin cable attached to a small box on the bed.
Lukas glanced over Beverly’s shoulder as she hurriedly took the woman’s vitals. The O2 sat had been 87 percent before the mask. Not good.
He stepped around to the other side of the exam table. “Good morning, Mrs. Knight.”
“Miss. I’m Darlene,” she said between breaths.
“Thank you, Darlene. I’m Dr. Bower. I’m going to listen to your lungs to get a better idea about what’s going on.” He pressed his stethoscope against her back and heard a soft, musical wheeze, both inspiratory and expiratory. She was moving very little air.
He straightened. “Beverly, do you have the vitals yet?”
“Yes, Doctor. BP 130 over 90, heart rate 120, respiration 36, temp 100.6.”
“Okay, thank you.” He gave orders for IV treatment and reassured Darlene. While Beverly carried out the orders, he went to the desk and ordered a stat respiratory therapy, blood tests and a chest X-ray.
Beverly had the IV established and was pushing the Solu-Medrol when he returned.
He glanced at the chart. “Darlene, we’ll have someone here in a few minutes to give you a breathing treatment. It’s going to help.”
She nodded, not looking at him, still fighting to breathe. “Thanks.”
Lukas frowned at her for a moment. Interesting. Her eyes were bloodshot, and dark circles shadowed them—not the typical signs of an asthmatic. She avoided eye contact. She acted as if she had other things on her mind. Other asthmatics watched every move he and the nurse made, desperate for help, needing their reassurance and attention.
He sat down in front of her. “After we get your breathing improved, then we’ll need to do some tests to check you out.” He glanced at the chart again. Beverly had only had time to do the vitals, not a complete assessment.
“Do you take any medicines, Darlene?”
She shook her head. “Supposed to take theophylline and two inhalers, but I haven’t lately. I ran out. Can’t afford refills.”