Free Heart Failure by Richard L. Mabry

in the wind from the activity going on behind them.
    “Thanks, Jane,” Carrie said, thankful that the right name had come to her just in time.
    She drew aside the curtains and saw what she’d expected. An ER doctor alternately focused on the green lines of a heart monitor and the lab slips in his hand. An elderly lady, thin and pale, lay motionless on the wheeled stretcher. Oxygen flowed into a clear plastic mask that covered her lower face. IVs dripped into both arms. Her vital signs, constantly displayed on yet another monitor, showed a blood pressure that was low but adequate.
    “I’m here,” Carrie said to the other doctor. “Fill me in.”
    He did so in a few sentences, using the medical-speak only a professional would understand. “If you don’t need me, I’ve got an ER full of patients. But call if I can help.” He slid through the curtains and was gone.
    As Carrie moved to her side, the woman on the stretcher opened her eyes, blinked, and squinted in recognition. “Dr. Markham. Am I dying?” Her voice was weak, and the effort of speaking seemed to exhaust her.
    Carrie patted her hand. “Mrs. Lambert, you’ve had another heart attack—a pretty big one, according to what I see. We need to do a cardiac angiogram to see how to handle this.”
    Mrs. Lambert breathed out through pursed lips, then took in a deep breath. “So, another stent?”
    “I’m—”
    “It depends on what the angiogram shows. You may need an operation to supply more blood to your heart.”
    Carrie whirled to identify the speaker. Actually, his voice was easily identifiable to her—she’d heard it only minutes ago—but she couldn’t believe Phil Rushton would try to claim the case without speaking to her first. “Phil, what—”
    At that moment a man and woman in hospital scrubs pushed into the already crowded space and positioned themselves at the head and foot of the gurney. The woman spoke to Mrs. Lambert. “We’re going to take you for an X-ray study of your heart.” They busied themselves with changing from the wall oxygen supply to a tank under the gurney. The male member of the team unplugged the monitors, and in a moment they wheeled Mrs. Lambert away.
    Carrie glared at Phil. “Can you tell me what’s going on? And why you’re taking over my patient without consulting me?”
    Phil made a palms-out gesture. “Carrie, this is Mrs. Lambert’s third infarction. I have no doubt that both her EKG and enzymes will confirm that it’s a major one. Her daughter called the clinic right after you left and asked if I’d take charge of her case if she needed surgery. She gave me most of the history I need. We’ll see what the angiogram shows, but I’m willing to bet that this time stents won’t do it. Your patient will need bypass surgery. Now, unless you want to try to talk her and her daughter into going somewhere else, I think you’ll agree I’m a good choice to do the operation. And the sooner we get to it, the better.”
    He was right, of course. Mrs. Lambert was a prime candidate for what medical professionals called a “cabbage.” Not the leafy vegetable. She needed a coronary artery bypass graft, a procedure that bore the acronym CABG. Carrie had to admit the probable need for such surgery crossed her mind as shehurried to the ER. Mrs. Lambert shouldn’t suffer because Carrie had her feelings ruffled. She shrugged. “Let’s head for the angiography suite. I want to see what the angio shows.”
    “Are you sure you want to go back there?” Phil said. “After what happened to John—”
    “I’ll be fine,” Carrie snapped. “I’ve been going to the angio suite since two weeks after John died. I’ll be the first to admit it wasn’t easy at first, but I did it.” She turned on her heel and said over her shoulder, “I promise I won’t break down, if that’s what’s bothering you. Now, are you coming?”
    As Carrie hurried down the corridor, she wondered about the man matching her stride for stride.