Bone Dus

Home > Other > Bone Dus > Page 2
Bone Dus Page 2

by Bette Golden Lamb


  “I tell you ... it’s not only that killer New York accent of yours, but you’re Italian, just like him. What a deadly combo.” Jenni tapped in a few keys and the computer brought up the patient’s history. “To get back to your question, Emma Tyson hasn’t been anywhere out of the country or even traveling around the US.

  “Why was she admitted?”

  “Duh,” Jenni said. “Emma is old, dehydrated, and it looks like she’s getting a URI, too ... coughing her head off. Do we need more?”

  One of the lab guys set his tray loaded with multicolored specimen tubes, tourniquets, needles, on the counter. “Good morning.”

  “Hi, Russ.” Jenni barely looked at him, but she was tucking in a smile that was going to burst free at any second.

  Gina had seen this phlebotomist a few times but had never really had much to say to him. She watched his eyes turn to gray stone. “My name is Russell, Ms. Webb. And you know I hate to be called Russ.”

  “I’m so sorry, Russ. I keep forgetting.”

  Russell grabbed his tray and hurried away.

  “What’s up with him?” Gina said. “I thought he worked nights.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “What’s the deal?” Gina asked.

  “He hit on me for a while, even went out with him. That was a really big mistake, but now I won’t give the jerk the time of day and he’s been really weird ever since.”

  “He seems nice enough,” Gina said. “Not bad-looking with that brown wavy hair, although I like them a little taller.” Jenni stood and went into the adjoining meds room. “Shoot, he just doesn’t want you to call him Russ.”

  Jenni started pulling out her patient meds from the cabinet.

  “What I’d like to call him is nut job.”

  “Why?”

  “He owns a cabin in the woods and he took me out to teach me how to use a bow and arrow.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  Jenni turned away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  * * *

  Russell heard what Jenni said to Gina as he walked away.

  If that bitch knew my full name was Russell Owen Thorpe, she’d have a field day. Probably call me ROT, just like his foster sister did.

  He was still fuming, but tried to push the nurse out of his head.

  She’ll pay someday and it won’t be too long.

  His mood lightened at that thought and he was smiling when he walked into the first room on his order sheet. The patient’s name had a question mark next to it lightly penciled in.

  Yeah. He’d drained her yesterday. She was pretty sick.

  It was a private room with her bed near the window. Looking out you could see a spread of the city outside, that is if you were standing. She wasn’t seeing much of it. All she could do was lie there and softly moan. Her pain made Russell’s stomach churn.

  Not only that, the woman was already looking like death warmed over. Her skin was as pale as the white of an egg with a criss-cross of tiny blue veins that covered the delicate skin of her closed eyelids.

  There wasn’t much time. Not only would the breakfast trays be handed out soon, he needed every minute to do what had to be done.

  The draining was his big thing, there was also the thrill, the danger of possibly getting caught. But he’d been blood-letting like this for a year now and they still hadn’t caught onto him.

  He set his tray on the patient’s stand, hurried into her bathroom, and grabbed the cardboard hat on the toilet the nurses used to collect and measure her output of urine. He ran back, set it on the floor next to the bed.

  His movements were starting to wake her, so he quickly pulled out a 60cc syringe, an alcohol swab, tourniquet, and a lavender-topped specimen tube, all of which he put next to her on the bed. When he wrapped the rubber tubing around her arm, she opened her eyes and turned to him.

  Her voice quavered. “Hello, Russell. Come to drain me dry again.”

  He gave her a fleeting smile. “Yeah, ’fraid so, Mrs. Tyson. Why don’t you go on back to sleep? This won’t take long.”

  She turned her head away. Like most patients, she didn’t want to see him jab a needle into her arm. Russell tightened the tourniquet, readied the syringe, wiped her arm with the alcohol sponge.

  Not bad. At least she has a vein that hasn’t given out yet.

  He shot a glance at his watch, knew he had at the most five minutes to do what he had to do.

  She was dozing off as he pierced her vein without any trouble and drew out a 60 cc syringe full of her blood.

  He kept the needle in place but he emptied the full syringe into the measuring hat on the floor. Repeated it until he had taken 240 ccs. In the last two days he’d taken a pint of blood from her.

  He then took a small amount of blood and added it into the lavender-topped collection tube and put it into the tray.

  He was breathing really hard now, feeling less sure that he would get away with it this time.

  This could be the day I get caught.

  His heart was galloping, climbing up into his throat as he withdrew the needle from her vein and planted the syringe in the sharps container.

  Russell placed a cotton ball and elastic tape on her arm where the needle had been and turned his attention to the collected blood.

  He carried it into the bathroom and tossed it into the toilet, covering the bowl with a thick film of blood. He washed out the hat, dried it with paper towels and flushed the toilet several times before the residue finally washed away.

  He was breathing hard as he straightened everything and had just put his equipment tray together when Gina walked into the room with the patient’s breakfast.

  Russell patted the woman’s head. “Now you rest easy.”

  The woman’s eyes fluttered open when Gina said, “Good morning.”

  “I’m not ... very hungry, nurse.”

  When Russell left the room, he heard the patient say, “Why don’t you leave it there. I’ll just close my eyes for a minute, then I’ll eat.”

  “Let me help you get ready.”

  “Maybe in a little bit. I’m really tired.”

  Russell would have to hurry along now to make up for lost time, but he whistled as he went down the hall to the next patient.

  Chapter 3

  Gina rolled a tray stand closer to Emma Tyson’s bed.

  “Let me help you sit up, Emma?” she said to the patient’s back. She pulled a tea bag from its wrapper, dropped it into the cup, and poured hot water over it. “Tea time, Emma.”

  This time when the patient didn’t answer, Gina hurried around to the other side of the bed so she could see her face.

  Oh, my God!

  The woman was chalk white. She looked as though every drop of blood had been drained from her body.

  “Ms. Tyson?” Gina gently shook her arm. No response. Her skin felt moist and cool. The patient was definitely nonresponsive. Gina tried to take a radial pulse.

  Nothing.

  She hit the patient’s call button and yelled into the speaker after Jenni answered: “Call a Code! Tyson’s vitals have dived—she’s in shock.”

  Gina turned the patient on her back, grabbed an extra blanket from a bedside chair, and covered and elevated Emma’s feet. The patient’s carotid pulse was weak and thready.

  A calm voice on the hospital PA system announced the Code, gave the location. Gina immediately began CPR.

  It seemed like an eternity before the emergency team wheeled the crash cart into the room.

  Gina stepped out of the way as they pushed a board under Emma’s mattress.

  One of the team started CPR again; the patient was tubed, bagged, and padded.

  A scary strip of ventricular fib rolled across the EKG screen.

  “Let’s get those meds going,” the leader ordered. Another team member pushed meds into the IV line; another keyed into the computer for Emma’s lab work. “She sure as hell can’t be hypovolemic. She has a better crit than mine.”

/>   “Maybe,” one of the others piped in. “But she’s whiter than the sheet she’s lying on and her B/P is almost gone.”

  “Damn it, she’s flat-lining,” the leader said. “Come on, guys, get the defibrillator going. Start at 200.”

  The hum of the machine seemed deafening to Gina. The attending physician arrived and stood at the doorway to the room.

  Paddles were ready.

  “Clear.”

  All hands were removed from the patient and the bed. The old woman’s back arched with the jolt.

  All eyes were on the EKG screen. A flat line raced across the screen.

  “Turn it up to 400.”

  “Clear.”

  The patient’s back arched again, but there was still no cardiac rhythm.

  Gina stood at the back of the room, out of the way. She felt helpless. Tears filled her eyes. The voices were just a blur of sound; she concentrated on the noise of the machines that might save Emma Tyson’s life.

  “Hit it at 600,” the team leader said.

  Everyone was silent after the last electrical surge.

  Nothing.

  “Call it,” the attending said.

  Gina looked at all their solemn faces.

  “Time of death, 0800.”

  For most people the day was just beginning.

  * * *

  Later that morning, Gina sat down in the nurses’ station—it always depressed her to lose a patient. She tried to remember anything special about Emma Tyson. She’d been admitted when Gina was off and they’d barely gotten to know each other. There’d been no time to establish that special nurse-patient relationship. All that stood out in the short time she knew the woman was that she was in a lot of pain, or as nurses like to say ... uncomfortable.

  Some obit: Emma Tyson, born in 1929, who gave no one any problems or was ever rude… or ... well… comfortable.

  Is that what life is supposed to be about? Slip in and slip out, never make any waves so everyone can say how nice you were?

  She pictured her own obit. It would read: A loud, troublemaker from the Bronx.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a hand resting on her shoulder. “I heard you were with Emma Tyson when she died.” Brad Rizzo pulled a chair up next to her.

  Gina looked into the MD’s green eyes. They were filled with concern. “I don’t know why I feel so terrible. I hardly knew her.”

  “You would have liked her.”

  Gina leaned forward. “What makes you say that?”

  “She was a lot like you.”

  He gave her one of the sweetest smiles she’d ever seen on a man’s face, and to top it off, a dimple appeared in each cheek.

  “Kind of outspoken and pushy when it came to making sure people got what they needed,” he said.

  Gina took in the rest of his six-foot-two frame and didn’t like the way her heart sped up. “I don’t know whether I’m being slammed or if I’ve gotten some kind of left-handed compliment.”

  He gave her that smile again. “Why don’t I pick you up for dinner and we’ll discuss it further.”

  She was caught off guard. She took in a deep breath and tried to relax. “Look, Brad, you know I’m already deeply involved in a relationship.”

  “Sure. I know about Harry. He’s a great guy, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have dinner together.” He took her hand. “It’s just dinner, Gina. I’m not asking you to marry me.”

  “That’s sure as hell not a word I’m fond of.”

  “What’s wrong with the word, dinner?”

  “No! Marry! That’s the word I’m thinking of.”

  “Why don’t I pick you up at six? I promise I won’t propose.”

  Chapter 4

  Russell was walking into the lab when the Code was announced. He knew it was for Emma Tyson because of the room number.

  No more pain, old girl.

  He looked around the lab—no one was paying one bit of attention to the announcement.

  The call was repeated: “Dr. Gray, will you please go to room one-twelve.”

  Dr. Gray. The Code Blue guy. Doctor Death.

  The lack of reaction irritated him. It wasn’t as if the staff didn’t know it meant someone could be into their final moments.

  Everyone at Ridgewood, medical or nonmedical, had gone through the emergency drill endless times. They all knew the euphemism for a Code Blue emergency.

  Some of the idiot women were still gossiping, like nothing special was going on. It always amazed him how they could yak away, keep on doing their job at the same time. Russell had to concentrate really hard on everything he did, while those idiots could work, talk about celebrities and clothes as though they were the only things that mattered.

  The manager came out of his niche and eyed Russell. It was time for him to start drawing blood in the front area now that he was finished on the units.

  The out-patients were lined up to have their blood drawn for testing. As soon as he stashed his tray and supplies, he’d have to go out and meet and greet the hordes that came through the lab every single day of the week.

  Actually, he didn’t mind jabbing people in the arm. It wasn’t that he liked hurting them; pain was always the enemy. What turned him on was the challenge of finding their veins and taking their blood.

  A private joke: it was rare that he didn’t hit the nail on the head. Every time he thought of that, he chuckled. The minute he touched someone’s arm he could almost sense where those skinny, blue things were hiding, even the ones that were buried deep under the skin—it was like being a Inspector searching for clues.

  The Vein Caper.

  He laughed at his own joke, but not loud enough for anyone to hear him.

  The lab was his safe haven. Blood spinning, blood analysis machines humming, technicians looking in microscopes, all the special tests, the on and off ringing of hospital telephones, the constant sound of fingernails tapping on computer key- boards. And it wasn’t only the machines, there was the hum of voices—patients, lab techs, lab assistants, all working, talking, consulting, moving in and out of the place, like the never-ending tide. And sometimes the constant buzz would escalate to a blast of sound that was almost deafening

  Never a dull moment. Busy, busy, busy.

  For Russell, it was the perfect place to not only hide in, but to work anonymously. Here he could be submerged in a viscous, burgundy delight. He could watch blood flow into tubes, spin into a dance. Watch blood, the healer or the destroyer, perform its magic.

  Here, he was a worker ant moving anonymously in the stream.

  Here, no one noticed him, noticing them.

  Russell looked around again. It appeared he was the only one who wasn’t involved in some task. It was like this world kept moving, while he watched from another dimension.

  Sometimes he wondered who was real, them or him?

  Well, that was stupid. He was certainly real enough.

  Maybe they didn’t pay a lot of attention to him, but everyone appreciated his skills with a needle. And they didn’t make fun of him like Jenni did in Internal Medicine.

  Ever since I took her out to the cabin, she looks at me like I’m dirt. Should never have taken her there. Never. Well, I’ve got my eye on her. She better keep her mouth shut.

  The manager walked in again, gave him an angry leer this time. Russell knew he’d better get moving.

  He removed Emma Tyson’s hidden lavender-topped tube from his tray and tossed it into the disposal bin for contaminated products.

  He‘d been secretly testing her hemoglobin and watching it dive for the last three days. Although Emma’s blood test was reported normal, he knew her real blood values—she‘d gone downhill after he started draining her, increasing the number of milliliters each day.

  Was he sorry for her? No. Did he feel something watching her fade away? No.

  She’d been in pain. Real pain. He’d put her out of her misery. She didn’t need to suffer. No one did.

  And someone always has to go.


  * * *

  Gina was scrolling through Emma Tyson’s computer record. The woman had been admitted when Gina was off. But she felt compelled to carefully read through all the nurses’ and doctors’ notes; she could see nothing that stood out.

  Emma had been admitted with a whole bunch of URI symptoms, the same thing that seemed to be making the rounds with this rapidly spreading flu infection. Older people seemed especially susceptible to it.

  One look at the woman’s color this morning and Gina knew that she was anemic. It was puzzling. How could her hematology have been even close to normal?

  Too late now. Still, it doesn’t make sense. Jenni is usually very observant. It’s surprising she didn’t pick up on the patient’s condition and bring it to Brad Rizzo’s attention.

  Thinking of Dr. Brad, which is what his patients called him, tweaked her memory. She remembered their first interaction a year ago, and it was anything but pleasant.

  * * *

  “You what?” Brad Rizzo had screamed at her.

  Gina wasn’t used to being put down for her nursing skills and this jerk, who’d only come on staff a month ago, was making her feel like a fool.

  “I DC’d her IV ... she was leaving in less than an hour.”

  “Did you have an order? Because I sure as hell didn’t write one.”

  He was pacing back and forth in the nurses station and it was just Gina’s luck that four or five docs, plus most of the floor nurses, were there to witness her being read the riot act.

  “Am I actually allowed to think?” Gina said, her hands on her hips. “The woman is leaving.” But Gina knew she’d screwed up. She should have had the order before removing the IV.

  “I planned on medicating her one more time before she left ... not that I have to explain anything to you.”

  He moved to the medicine cabinet. “Now open that damn narcotic box and get me 50 milligrams of Meperidine. I wanted to spare the woman another injection because during her stay here she’d been turned into a pin cushion.”

  Gina pulled out the medication and as she drew it up, she could feel her face burning with embarrassment.

  He was right: she had screwed up. But she still wanted to deck the over six-foot bastard in the worst way. And no less, the guy was an Italian from New York. Talk about bad karma.

 

‹ Prev