Free Sacred Trust by Hannah Alexander Page A

groaned.
    â€œHello, 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.”
    â€œYeah, Dr. Bower.” The man continued to rub his forehead. “It’s the worst I’ve ever had.”
    â€œThen you’ve had headaches like this before? Any nausea associated with them? Fever?”
    â€œI’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 doctorfor headaches before, Mr. Little? Ever had a CT head scan?”
    â€œNot 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.
    â€œWhat time is your appointment? Maybe I can call for an earlier—”
    â€œI 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—”
    â€œI’ll be there.” Lukas reached for the clipboard.
    â€œHey, hold it a minute!” Little came halfway off his stool. “What about me? I want to know about my headache.”
    â€œSorry, 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.”
    â€œMiss. I’m Darlene,” she said between breaths.
    â€œThank 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?”
    â€œYes, Doctor. BP 130 over 90, heart rate 120, respiration 36, temp 100.6.”
    â€œOkay, 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