Doctored by Sandeep Jauhar Read Free Book Online Page A

completely quiescent myocardium … is not readily apparent,” he wrote. “There had been no electrical cardiac activity … for several minutes at the time the efforts were terminated. This situation spontaneously reversed.”
    There is even a kind of Lazarus phenomenon that has been described in brain-dead patients who make spontaneous movements after they are disconnected from ventilators. Patients have been observed to develop goose bumps on their arms and trunk, raise and flex their arms rapidly, and display complex finger movements. A doctor described one patient raising his arms off the bed and extending his elbows, as if performing a benediction, and another crossing his hands in front of his neck, as if grasping for his breathing tube. These movements sometimes occur despite no measurable blood flow to the brain. Some doctors speculate they are generated in the spinal cord.
    However, as with most Lazarus patients, Mr. Richardson’s awakening was short-lived. After about five minutes his pulse disappeared, and despite a few more doses of adrenaline, it never returned. He was pronounced dead a second time after about ten minutes.
    I found his wife sitting in the waiting room. She looked up when I walked in. “Is it over?” she asked.
    â€œYes,” I replied.
    â€œDid he die?”
    I put my arm around her. She began to cry. “I’m sorry,” I said.
    As I drove home that night around eight, Long Island Sound was pitch-black, apart from the glimmering reflection of light poles. Fat rain droplets, like little eggs, started to splatter on my windshield, smearing with each sway of the wipers. In the distance the fractured skyline of the city stood out like shards of glass. Though I was physically exhausted, my mind was filled with the heady, mysterious events of the day. What had restarted Mr. Richardson’s heart? Was it the delayed action of adrenaline? Was it the bicarbonate? Was it something else?
    In Harlem the roads shimmered shiny black. Red taillights winked at me through the watery haze. Police sirens were sounding out loudly. On 116th Street, dented low riders slinked by, windows open, music blaring. My headlights caught a lonely figure under the elevated train tracks.
    I called Sonia to tell her that I was almost home. “How did Lamaze go?” I asked. Regrettably, I had missed it again this week. There was silence. “Honey?” I heard sobs.
    â€œWe need to talk,” she finally said, composing herself. “Dr. Edwards just called. She thinks the baby is in danger. She says I need a C-section before she goes on vacation next week.”

 
    TWO
    Odd Conceptions
    Patients’ decisions about their care must be paramount, as long as those decisions are in keeping with ethical practice and do not lead to demands for inappropriate care.
    â€”Physicians’ charter
    Sonia and I’d had a hard time conceiving, but not because of a lack of diligence. We tried everything: ovulation sensors, Kokopelli figurines, yoga, meditation, Clomid, Pergonal, intrauterine injections, in vitro fertilization (IVF), even mystical appeals to a Hindu guru (who confidently predicted we would have two boys). Nothing worked. The failures left us feeling tense and frustrated.
    In early 2003, at the midway point of my fellowship and shortly after our third unsuccessful attempt at IVF, we went on vacation to the Caribbean island of Anguilla. We both needed a break. We had been trying to get pregnant for over two years—Sonia was now thirty-two, and I was thirty-four—and we were quietly panicking that our efforts had become futile. One afternoon shortly after we arrived, I went for a walk alone on the sun-swept beach, where I met a shirtless loafer named Clement Clemons. He was tall and handsome, with brown dreadlocks emanating from his red bandanna and a quiet, dignified island air. We got to talking, and by and by he invited me to his