Compromised, page 23
part #1 of MetroGen Forbidden Love Duets Series
To put it mildly, he was unpleasant.
“Don’t slouch. He’ll be here any minute,” Nora warned Raj, waiting outside Steadman’s office.
They’d learned Dr. Steadman had quite lofty expectations from day one on how his students dressed and comported themselves.
“Couldn’t you have dressed better?” Nora hissed.
“I’m on call. These are scrubs. This is what scrubs are. I’d do anything to be back on beaks, bellies, and boobies,” Raj growled back.
“No kidding. You’re wearing the wrong size scrub top, and you have a hickey,” Nora said.
Michael stifled his laughter. He and Raj had only fit in one gym session this month, and Raj had skipped two study sessions with Michael and Nora. Michael wasn’t exactly sorry, since it gave him and Angela more time together.
And Angela didn’t leave her hickeys where they could be seen.
“The scrub top isn’t the wrong size. I am,” Raj bit back. His rapidly growing body struggled to settle on a consistent size. “What do you expect me to do? Wear a shirt and tie under my scrubs?”
For once, Michael was performing ahead of the other two, having worked in corporate America. Suits didn’t go out of style, though he wasn’t nearly in Steadman’s league of bespoke tailored suits.
Steadman, humorless, usually ignored Michael, but he almost always found fault with Nora and Raj.
It was getting to Nora. Steadman didn’t like it if she wore a wig. He didn’t like caps for her hair. He expected her to wear pants, which hadn’t been an issue on her calls. However, Michael suspected he’d find something wrong with her three quarter length sleeves and A-line skirt. Today, her hair was not visible under a complex turban wrap.
Michael didn’t like it and bit his tongue daily. After the first day, the three of them had discussed Steadman. They only had to survive one week in silence.
They were lucky in that aspect. Daniel Steadman had the most interesting effect on the surrounding staff. The nurses in his path fled before him, and his surgical tech had the thickest skin Michael could ever imagine. Daniel Stedman never said ‘thank you’ or ‘sorry.’
Speaking of, they were warned of his approach by a scurrying of nurses. Steadman came down the hallway, and the students snapped to attention. As expected, his examination of their appearances was more in depth than Nora’s, and he repeated several of his past complaints.
“Patel. Are you unable to locate clothing you didn’t pull out from under your bed?”
“I’m sorry, sir. Hospital scrubs are—”
“I don’t care. You need a haircut. Be a professional, not a drunk surgeon from Ortho.” He waved over Raj’s head.
“I will do that at first opportunity,” Raj said.
Steadman moved to Michael. “Half-Windsor? Interesting choice. What is your shirt size?”
“I’m a sixteen and a half, 34/35,” Michael said.
“Watch your diet or you’ll end up a seventeen,” Steadman said. “Straining at the collar is no one’s favor. Get a cholesterol check.”
“Of course,” Michael lied. He made love to a cardiologist regularly. If he needed a cholesterol check at 34 years old, she’d have told him, not a bitter plastic surgeon.
Steadman turned his famous blue eyes on Nora. “Squat down.”
“Sir?” Nora asked in confusion.
“Your skirt. Are you able to perform your job wearing that skirt?”
“Yes, sir. I wore this skirt in pediatrics without any issue.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion. I asked you to demonstrate your mobility. You cannot trip, fall, or split your skirt while taking care of a patient. I don’t spend my time transplanting skin from one part of the body to another so a careless medical student can contaminate it.”
Nora crouched down, and Michael bit the inside of his lip. This was unnecessary.
“Fine,” Steadman said and found a new target. “What is this on your head?”
“A traditional headscarf,” she answered. The head covering in question was threaded in silver and black beading.
“Whose tradition?”
“My husband’s.”
“Appropriated?” Steadman’s voice held accusation.
Nora’s eyes were watering. “We-we’re Moroccan.”
“Sure, you are. Of course.” The sarcasm was thick, and Nora was having trouble holding it together. “Are you crying?”
Raj took a step forward toward Steadman. Michael splayed a restraining hand in front of his chest and hissed, “Shh.”
Steadman noticed. “Do you have something to say, Mr. Harper? Patel?”
Michael regarded him steadily, almost the same height as his attending. Bullies got their power from knocking other people down. They would not give him the satisfaction. “No, Dr. Steadman.”
Steadman stared back at him coldly, practically challenging Michael to defy him. “Are you sure, medical student?”
Raj tensed with barely contained fury. Michael kept his voice steady. “We’re all sure.”
If Steadman wanted to test him, he was welcome to try. It had taken Michael almost the entirety of third year to find his internal and emotional balance, but he’d found it, and Steadman wouldn’t shake him.
It was unclear how long the stare down would have lasted. Fortunately, Steadman’s pager went off. He broke away to find a phone, since not even Steadman’s expensive cell had a signal in the hospital.
Raj brushed Michael aside. “You should have let me kick his ass. I could.”
Michael flexed the fingers of his opposite hand, trying to get the feeling back in it from clenching his fist so tightly. “We only have to make it through this week. It’s almost over.”
“Really? I’ll take his right, you take his left. I got some new grappling skills. He won’t even know what hit him.”
“He’s trying to get to us,” Michael said.
“And it’s working,” Raj said. “See what he did to Nora?”
“I was fine,” Nora protested, wiping her eyes.
“You’re not fine. What he’s doing is not right.” Michael took a Kleenex out of his shirt pocket and gave it to her. "If I hadn’t promised to behave myself, I’d have given him a piece of my mind."
“We should let him. I saw Michael stare down a whole group of surgery residents last month. Give him a motivational talk with the stare. I’ll have your back,” Raj said.
“And how will it help? Michael would get in trouble, and nothing would happen to Steadman,” Nora said.
“We could report him,” Raj suggested.
“Have you forgotten who he is? Daniel Steadman sits on the hospital board. His family’s publishing empire is worth a billion dollars. A few verbally abused medical students is nothing,” Nora said. “Besides, he’ll claim he was ignorant of Orthodox Jews.”
“Dr. Feldsher is the Chief of OB. There’s no way he didn’t know, if he’s on the hospital board,” Raj said.
“Another reason not to piss him off. He’s the best burn surgeon in the city, and we can tolerate one more day of his posturing,” Nora said. “So no fighting, Michael.”
“I don’t start fights with reasonable authority figures. And I don’t start fights,” Michael said. He had a big evening planned with Angela before his next call on Sunday, and the surgery shelf exam on Monday. Getting into a fight with Steadman wouldn’t help him keep a low profile and avoid the scrutiny of the medical school administration.
Raj raised his hands. “Not yet anyhow. Crap, here he comes.”
Steadman was moving faster than before. “Gasoline burn, consult to the surgical ICU. Get moving.”
The medical students fell in line. Michael held one finger over his lips to make sure Raj didn’t forget.
Chapter 41
There was a fight in the ICU. Michael wasn’t even involved, though the aftermath might have been his fault.
The consult started out normally enough. Hospital staff not involved with the patient faded away when they saw Steadman coming. The nurses already had isolation gowns waiting, and hung up Steadman’s expensive suit jacket, lest it face a wrinkle.
The four of them, gowned up, entered the ICU room. The patient was on numerous machines monitoring in his fluids and a non-rebreather mask. Michael saw the white board indicating his last dose of fentanyl, which was the strongest narcotic legally available in the US. Heroin was three to four times stronger than morphine. Fentanyl was a hundred times stronger than morphine.
“Right hand?” Steadman asked.
“Yes, sir,” the ICU nurse confirmed and removed the drape from the hand.
Everyone who wasn’t Steadman gasped in horror. From the fingertips to the knuckles to up the forearm was a mass of charred purple tissue. The further up the forearm in splashes of red were the blistered second-degree burns.
Steadman probed the fingertips with his own gloved hand. “What percentage of the body surface area is the hand?”
“Three percent on both sides,” Nora answered.
“And how would you suggest we go about handling this burn, Patel?” Steadman asked.
“Escharotomy or fasciotomy,” Raj said.
“Wrong. Why we wouldn’t do a fasciotomy?” he asked.
“Because we reserve those for compartment syndrome, which occurs usually hours after fluid resuscitation in patients,” Michael knew this one.
“The question was to Patel, your less prepared colleague. I need a bovie here,” Steadman said.
“You’re going to do the escharotomy here?” Nora asked. “Not the OR?”
“The OR is unnecessary at this time. He won’t even notice,” Steadman said. “Who is his consent?”
“I am.” Another masked and gowned shadow emerged from a chair by the monitors. “I have emergency consent authority from his wife.”
A wave of profound rage crossed Steadman’s eyes behind the mask. “Do you?”
The other person came into view, and Michael realized it was a tall muscular Black man in a more formal uniform of the Cuyahoga Combined Fire Department showing through the yellow gown.
“Very well. Do you consent for me to save his hand by cutting through the escar?” Steadman’s voice sounded odd, even for him. He usually treated the patients and families with distant aloof politeness.
“He has a name.”
“I know, but I doubt he wants to lose any chance of a functioning hand while we consult the record for thirty minutes. Why didn’t your paramedics do this in the field?”
“Because I assume they know their limitations,” the man said.
“At least someone does.” Steadman was handed the bovie. “Begin time out.”
“Right,” the nurse said and took out a clipboard. “Umm, the consent?”
Nora said, textbook perfect, “As the emergency contact for Mr. Edward Phan, you consent for Dr. Steadman to perform a bedside escharatomy? This is a life and limb saving procedure which does carry the risks of nerve damage, amputation, permanent disfigurement, infection, and death?”
“I, Battalion Chief James Haskell, consent to the procedure for Mr. Phan in the stead of his wife and on behalf of Cuyahoga Combined Fire Department.”
“Look how far you’ve come in the world.” Steadman arranged the drapes around the hand. “Battalion chief?”
“I did my time. I’ve been punished enough,” Haskell said.
“No one can be punished enough. You’re still alive,” Steadman said.
“Are you going to give him more pain meds before you start?” Haskell asked, ignoring the last comment.
“It’s unnecessary. We’re cutting through dead tissue. He won’t feel it or even be aware.”
“We have no idea how much he’s aware of. I want him re-dosed before you start. He can’t voice his pain now,” Haskell said.
“I said he can’t tell. One of us has an MD, and it isn’t you, James. I make the clinical decisions. He’s on fentanyl. The last thing he needs to be on top of this is a depressed addict because we were too liberal with his meds. Ain’t enough Zoloft in the world to fix this.”
“I said re-dose the pain meds, Daniel.”
Steadman dropped the bovie and went after the firefighter. “Don’t you fucking call me Daniel. You have no right.”
“Then re-dose the pain meds… Danny.” Haskell poured it on.
Steadman grabbed Haskell through the gown and shoved him with a snarl against one of the glass ICU doors. “I want you out of here. Before you have a flashback and throw another pitcher at a staff member.”
“Re-dose my man.” Haskell wasn’t backing down.
“You don’t give me orders, Jamie,” Steadman cocked back his fist.
The rest of the room had been staring, frozen, as this spun out of control.
Not Michael, though. He caught Steadman’s wrist. “Remove your hands from the battalion chief before this goes any further.”
“You are in no position to judge me, Harper.” Steadman lowered his fist.
“This will benefit no one. Not you, and definitely not the patient.” Michael didn’t loosen his grip and stood between the attending and the firefighter. Raj woke up to his earlier promise and imposed his body in front of Haskell.
“You’re dying to say something to me. Tell me off?”
Michael released Steadman and gave his best ‘get your fucking head back in the game’ stare. “No.”
“Oh, you don’t? I’ve heard all about you. The C-section. The little incident on general surgery. You’re stint on TV as the Bachelor. Think you’re better than everyone else even though you got into med school by the skin of your teeth?” Steadman raged.
“Only some people.” Michael let Steadman come to his own conclusion.
“Get the hell out of this room. You and him.”
“I’ll leave when you re-dose him,” Haskell said, not moving away from the door.
“Thank you. Give him another dose of 25 mcg of fentanyl. Harper, get out,” Steadman barked.
“That’s not fair,” Nora spoke up. “He didn’t do anything.”
“This is a delicate procedure. If I do a bad job, I’ll cut an important nerve and cripple him. I don’t want either of them in here. In fact, Borenstein, leave also. I’ll be having words with Dr. Kandal after this procedure.”
“Then I’m out too.” Raj hurried out the door. The four of them left and closed the glass door behind them.
Once they doffed their protective equipment, Michael said. “Sorry. I had promised to behave.”
“He was the problem, not you. Or not mostly you,” Nora said. “He’s really gonna talk to Kandal.”
“Probably.” Raj kicked imaginary dirt off the floor. “Rumors abound for angry Steadman.”
“You should have stayed out of it,” Michael said.
“And be left alone with him? I wouldn’t have lasted ten seconds before he ordered me out. At least now I’m a martyr for the cause. Though, trust me, I could have taken him.”
Chief Haskell chuckled. “If anyone is to blame, it’s me. He and I have a history.”
“You do?” Raj perked up. They might have been missing a cool surgical procedure and getting reported to their clerkship director, but Raj was game for gossip.
“Yes, he lost a child in a botched surgery in the field.” Haskell kept it brief.
“You were one of the guys in the C-section?” Raj could hardly contain his excitement. An actual personal eyewitness to the defining hospital disaster of their time. “Was it terrible?”
“I wasn’t there. I was in command of the medics that performed it. In a high profile disaster, heads must roll. Mine did. I was removed from my captaincy into administration for about three years.”
“Harsh,” Raj said. “You got time without committing the crime.”
“I wasn’t going to let my men get blamed for it. It was less painful than you’d guess. I got counseling, earned my degree in fire science, and completed FD’s training program for bat chief.”
“Counseling?” Michael asked. The fire chief or his administration must have been into mental health, based on the firefighters they’d seen at the counseling in psych this winter. Still, most men wouldn’t admit they’d been to counseling to relative strangers.
“For my burns. Daniel Steadman was my doctor.”
The medical students immediately checked him over for burns. The chief’s uniform was black pants, black blazer, and a white-collared shirt and tie. Wherever the burns were, they weren’t visible to the casual observer.
Haskell waved to one of the nurses. “Is the next room empty?”
The closet nurse had been watching the door to Mr. Phan’s room. “Sure. You need it?”
“Five minutes. You lost seeing a procedure. It’s a fair trade, because I’ll teach you more than anything you’ll learn in the other room.”
They went with Haskell into the room. He closed the door and pulled the curtain over it. Then he turned on the lights, familiar with the layout of the space.
“Do you come here a lot?” Nora asked.
“More than I want, though I was a patient on this floor. I don’t remember a lot about it beyond the lights and the endless blur of pain.”
No wonder it had almost come to blows over pain medication.
The battalion chief took off his shirt and turned to show them his left side.
The medical students stayed silent.
Battalion Chief Haskell had been burned—very, very badly. His unburned skin was darker than Michael’s almost coal coloring. The burn covered most of his left side, sparing the nipple but wrapped around his back and extended below his belt line. The skin was lighter, sometimes pink, puckered and rough, similar to an orange peel. Having seen several skin grafts, they could see the skill it had taken the plastic surgeon to painstakingly transplant skin from other sites to the patchwork quilt on his back.
“There was an oil explosion in a car dealership. I died a few times, not that I remember.” Haskell ducked his face down into the crook of his left elbow in demonstration. “I got my arm in front of my face and the back of my turnouts got most of it. “
Michael moistened his lips, trying to find words to say something, anything. As a fellow Black man, Haskell exposing this pain to an audience was harder than he could imagine. They were supposed to be tough, unfazed, the captain of their own ships. To be this vulnerable took a huge amount of strength.
