Free The Best American Crime Reporting 2009 by Jeffrey Toobin

and doctors came frequently over the next several days to check it, and to change the dressing. She was out of bed and sitting in a chair in one day, and walking down the hallway in three. After a week, she was doing well enough to be discharged. Instead of going home, she decided to recuperate at a nursing home, as she was worried about being alone. She intended to stay there for a month, but was so disgusted with the care she received that she left after six days, despite having developed a fever, which fluctuated seemingly without reason. Her doctor prescribed an oral antibiotic, which she supplemented with Tylenol. Overall, she felt unwell, weak.
    Surrounded by the comforts of home—her favorite navy blue recliner, her books and magazines, her favorite stuffed bunny with the long floppy ears and a country dress—Betty hoped she’d begin feeling better. She did not. Visiting nurses handled the woundand monitored her fever, which continued. In early June, she began feeling particularly bad, and her temperature spiked to 100.4°. She called a friend, who drove her back to Jefferson, where she was admitted.
    While examining Pfaff, her doctor discovered a tiny piece of gauze deep inside her wound. He performed a debridement—a deep cleaning of the wound. Afterward, he told her, once again, that all had gone well. He ordered a culture of the wound, and started her on a three-day course of high-potency amoxicillin. She remained in the hospital for four more days.
    Her son picked her up and returned her to her home, and the visiting nurses began coming again. She felt about the same, and her temperature persisted; she remained on antibiotics, and was instructed to return to the ER if her fever broke 100.5°. On July 1st, her visiting nurse came and took her temperature: It was 104°. “We have to get you to the hospital,” the nurse said, and left a message for Pfaff’s son. Betty called her sister Nancy, who came over to sit with her and wait for Philip.
    Betty’s condition worsened. She began staring; she had trouble focusing. She rocked oddly in her chair. Nancy feared her sister was suffering a stroke. Philip arrived, and Nancy went outside to confer with him. They dialed 911.
    By the time they reached Abington Hospital, Betty’s fever was burning at 106°. Her heart rate had increased rapidly, along with her respiration. Nurses threaded a catheter into her hand and pumped fluids into her. A doctor ordered several intravenous medications. She appeared to be getting better. At 9 p.m. she told Nancy and Philip to go home, that she would be fine. Then, at midnight, Philip received a call to return to the hospital. His mother had been moved to intensive care. Doctors told him there was just a 20 percent chance she would survive.
    Betty Pfaff was septic, meaning her entire body was ravaged by infection. When Philip saw her, a ventilator was breathing for her. She was horrifically swollen. She was hooked to a dialysismachine that was removing and purifying her blood. Philip was told to summon his family. They arrived at the hospital and surrounded Betty. A priest administered last rites.
    For nine days her family stood vigil, having been assured she would die. Incredibly, on the 10th day, she opened her eyes.
    All around the hospital, she became known as “the new Lazarus.”
    It would be, however, a long, difficult recovery. She couldn’t walk, wash, or take care of herself. She spent 26 days at Abington Hospital, then two months in rehabilitation, slowly building back her strength.
    Over and over, Betty Pfaff asked her doctors a single question: How could this happen? They replied with the only answer they knew: Infection is always a risk with surgery. But Betty was unsatisfied.
    It wasn’t until Valentine’s Day 2006, almost a year after her surgery, that she opened a letter that arrived from the Food and Drug Administration via her doctor. It advised her that she’d received human tissue, stolen from a cadaver,