HERB AWOKE ON WEDNESDAY feeling more like his old self. Morning ICU rounds went well. A case of bacterial pneumonia in an elderly woman, complicated by septic shock, kidney failure, and allergies to the antibiotics usually administered, didn’t flummox him in the least. As he was writing progress notes, Herb hummed a melody, a tune he first heard in a blues club while living in Washington DC. Recalling the title, I Got My Mojo Working, he laughed out loud.
“It’s nice to see you in a good mood.”
He looked up to see Laurie Hampton. She had her arms folded and an amused smile.
“It’s nice to be pain free,” he said touching the pea-size lump on his head. “I guess you know about my little accident last weekend?”
“Do you think there’s anyone in this unit who doesn’t know about it?”
He shrugged amiably.
“Sorry to rain on your parade, Herb, but Boyce’s parents want to talk to an attending.”
He knew the case well, a twenty-four year old with severe Pneumocystis pneumonia. The patient’s family and friends were absolutely certain he wasn’t gay or bisexual and that he had never injected drugs.
“They still don’t believe he has AIDS,” she said. “They’ve heard about the new antibody test and asked the resident to order it. He told them it’s not available yet. Now they’re demanding to see the ‘doctor in charge.’”
Laurie pointed her finger at Herb.
“The resident’s right. The assay hasn’t been approved by the FDA. It can only be used in a research protocol.”
“They need to hear it from you, Herb.”
She pointed at the door of the family room.
“Will do.”
When Herb left the room, Laurie was hovering outside the door.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“They’re having a hard time coping, and I validated that’s a normal, appropriate response. They’re willing to face facts and not make unreasonable demands.”
Instantly ashamed of what he had just said, Herb berated himself. Who am I to tell her about coping? She’s known for three years her fate is a coin toss that might land tails-down at any moment. How could I have been so stupid?
Laurie didn’t react to his remark.
Maybe she’s in Gwen’s study, he hoped. Maybe she found out she’s not infected.
He glanced at Laurie, who was gazing pensively at the young man lying unconscious and paralyzed while a ventilator kept him alive. She turned to Herb with unguarded eyes, seeming as fragile as when she had told him about the needle-stick in 1981. They hadn’t spoken of it since. He felt his neck pulse bounding. He thrust his hands into his pockets so she wouldn’t see them trembling.
“Herb, do you have a few minutes to talk?”
He waited a second too long before answering, “Sure.”
By then, Laurie had reset the corners of her mouth into a managerial smile.
“Actually, I need to start an IV,” she said. “I’ll catch you later.”