Any luck talking about the IED? I texted Tucker as I headed back to the ER, sans lunch. That exchange with Samira had ripped away my appetite.
Some.
With Rudy? I couldn't help asking
No, with some other guys. You?
Ha. I sent him a gif of Eddie Murphy locking his lips and waving 'bye.
My next patient was a woman with heavy and continuous periods. In Canada, the nurses might take bets on her hemoglobin. The lowest I've ever encountered was 60, which made them scoff. One nurse had seen one as low as 32.
This woman looked pale and tired and said she could barely walk, but no one joked about hemoglobin. I placed my orders (successfully!), and a lab tech came to draw the blood.
I saw a man with an ear infection that had ruptured his eardrum, a child with a large left lower pneumonia, and a guy with such a bad nosebleed that he'd bled through someone else's attempts at anterior packing. The staff doctor ended up installing two Foley catheters.
The last one made my hands shake. Blood everywhere. The patient was a construction worker already known to have hepatitis C. There wasn't any protective gear on hand, not even gloves, and the staff doctor had pushed me aside to deal with it.
I belatedly realized that Canadians took their health for granted. Most people rushing to the ER's in London, Ontario or Montreal, Quebec have sore throats, colds, coughs, maybe a fracture. Most of them are quick to see and let go.
At this hospital, everyone was sick, even on the walk-in side. They didn't come unless they meant it.
"Go to lunch," said the staff, stripping off his gloves.
"I'm okay," I said. I felt a bit queasy anyway.
"Go to lunch," he repeated, and I went, texting Tucker to see if he was free. He was in acute care, seeing ambulance patients, so we might not cross paths at all.
I kept an eye out for the doctor with the broken nose, but I didn't spot any silver glasses. Maybe he wasn't scheduled to work, or maybe he'd needed some time off. I could understand either way.
In the still-steamy cafeteria, I grabbed an egg sandwich. Not my first choice, but I didn't want to line up again, and I couldn't survive the rest of my shift on a salad. I found an empty two-seater table by the window. The chocolate milk tasted a little different, but it quenched my thirst and boosted my energy.
Tucker slid into the black plastic seat across from me, beaming. "Hey, stranger."
"Good day?" I felt soul-crushed, but he looked exhilarated.
He leaned forward to brush a crumb off the corner of my mouth, and to whisper, "I helped deliver a baby! I mean, the social issues were tough because it was an unwed teen mother who'd denied her pregnancy, and she had FGM—"
"Female genital mutilation?"
"Right. I didn't realize how common it was in Egypt. Everyone else was surprised that I hadn't seen it before. I wasn't sure how to handle the delivery, so they helped me out."
I pressed my fist to my chest. That poor teenager. "I'm taking it was more than a clitoridectomy."
Tucker glanced from side to side to check if anyone was listening. "Tell you about it later."
"Right. Okay." We certainly weren't in Kansas anymore. "Grabbing lunch?"
He lowered his voice even more. "I'll get it after. Two things. I think I figured out what happened with Dr. Ahmed. The pathology resident."
The poor doctor with the broken nose. "You did? While you were delivering a baby?"
He waved his hand. "Not exactly. I was already texting people, asking questions."
Ah. The mysterious texts from last night when he tried to distract me by babbling about a quadfecta. At least he hadn't latched on a luscious belly dancer. Yet. "Okay. What was it?"
He beckoned for me to lean forward and practically pressed his lips against my ear. "Did you know how doctors are treated in Egypt?"
I shook my head.
"They went on strike in 2012. A police officer hit a physician who refused to falsify a medical report for him."
I jerked away from Tucker so fast that I almost rammed his nose. "Oh, my God. That's not—how could—"
In my mind's eye, I replayed the backs of two police officers casually walking away from cubicle number 5.
Tucker nodded at me. "You know what I'm saying. Police hit two other doctors in separate incidents. Plus physicians are working with unsterilized surgical equipment, without proper gloves. It's dangerous even if you're not assaulted."
I shuddered, remembering my nosebleed patient this morning.
"When they tell people to bring their own needles or cast material, the patients attack them too. Someone hit a female doctor and broke her jaw." Tucker gritted his teeth. "They're saying Dr. Ahmed was lucky that it was only a broken nose." He flashed me his phone. "You see this hospital bed?"
"What is that?" I recoiled from the photo. If I were a patient, I wouldn't even want to step on the dirty floor while wearing hip waders and a HAZMAT suit, let alone lie on that filthy mattress split down the middle, while paint and plaster flaked into my mouth.
Tucker wasn't done. "And it's only getting worse. Do you know how much each country's supposed to spend on health care?"
This, I knew from election debates in Canada. "We spend about 10 percent of our Gross National Product on health care, which is why they keep trying to cut it, but that's not possible with an aging population, more tests and treatment, and more technology."
Tucker sighed. "Last I saw was 11.7 percent in Canada. The U.S. is 17.7 percent. You know how much Egypt spends? They claim 3 to 5 percent, but my friends say that includes water and roads. So, like, when the nurses went on strike, they forced doctors to do the nursing jobs, and brought in nursing students. It's a hellhole."
Good God. I crumbled up my sandwich wrap, remembering all the Egyptian doctors and pharmacists who'd taught Tucker Arabic at McGill. "That must be why everyone wants to leave."
He nodded. "Half have left already, which makes it even worse for the ones who stay. It's dangerous here. Every day is like a war."
"I had no idea." I sat for a minute, stunned.
"I know. It's a lot. Sorry. I've got to get back and help, but first, I need to show you this." He flashed a pencil drawing at me. It took me a second to register what he'd done.
He'd drawn a portrait of the man who'd come out of the bathroom with Gizelda Becker.
It took my breath away. Tucker was good. Gifted, even. He'd once drawn a picture of me, and it was one of the things that had won my heart, even though we didn't discuss it.
"Amazing. Looks just like him."
Tucker grinned. "I snapped a picture of it and posted it on social media. My buddies will get the word out online."
"And you think they'll be able to find him in a city of 10 or 20 million people?"
Tucker shrugged. "Well. I am that good."
I grimaced before I laughed.
"He's also five foot eight, 150 pounds, and smells like Boss cologne."
"You have a better nose than me. Well, it's worth a try. Didn't people stalk a celebrity through Twitter?"
Tucker nodded. "Yeah. One of my friends told me there's an app we can use too."
"Freaky." There are apps for everything. "Okay, well, I've read The Circle. I hope things don't get too creepy."
He raised his eyebrows. Evidently our friend Tori hadn't persuaded him to read that book. "When have I ever been creepy?"
Part of being a good girlfriend is knowing when to smile reassuringly. "Rarely."
He caught my tone, but shrugged it off. "I gotta get something to eat before I fall over. You here for another ten?"
I checked my watch. "I'd better go. Love you."
He arched his eyebrows. "Not as much as I love you."
I heard a woman giggle behind us. It turned out to be a short, round-faced cleaner. I smiled back at her before I made a phone call to chase my own leads. I love Tucker, but a woman's got to solve her own cases.