Harvest by Tess Gerritsen Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tess Gerritsen
of consciousness occupied the currained stalls. Mary Allen, in the last stall, was just beginning to stir. She moved her foot. Moaned. Tried to pull her hand free of the restraint.
With her stethoscope, Abby took a quick listen to the patient's lungs, then said: "Give her five milligrammes of morphine, IV."
The nurse injected an IV bolus of morphine sulphate. Just enough to dull the pain, yet allow a gentle return to consciousness. Mary's groaning ceased. The tracing on the heart monitor remained steady and regular.
"Post-op orders, Dr. Wettig?" the nurse asked.
There was a moment's silence. Abby glanced at Wetfig, who said, "Dr. DiMatteo's in charge here." And he left the room.
The nurses looked at each other. Wetfig always wrote his own post-op orders. This was another vote of confidence for Abby.
She took the chart to the desk and began to write: Transfer to 5 East, Thoracic Surgery Service. Diagnosis: Post-op open lung biopsy for multiple pulmonary nodules. Condition: stable. She wrote steadily: orders for diet, meds, activity. She reached the line for code status. Automatically she wrote: Full code.
She looked across the desk at Mary Allen, lying motionless on the gurney. Thought about what it would be like to be eighty-four years old and fiddled with cancer, the days numbered, each one filled with pain. Would the patient choose a kinder, swifter death? Abby didn't know.
"Dr. DiMatteo?" It was a voice over the intercom.
"Yes?" said Abby.
"You had a call from 4 East about ten minutes ago. They want you to come by."
"Neurosurg? Did they say why?"
"Something about a patient named Terrio. They want you to talk to the husband."
"Karen Terrio's not my patient any longer."
"I'm just passing the message along, Doctor."
"OK, thanks."
Sighing, Abby rose to her feet and went to Mary Allen's gurney for one last check of the cardiac monitor, the vital signs. The pulse was running a little fast, and the patient was moving, groaning again. Still in pain.
Abby looked at the nurse. "Another two milligrammes of morphine," she said.
The blip on the EKG monitor traced a slow and steady rhythm.
"Her heart's so strong," murmured JoeTerrio. "It doesn't want to give up. She doesn't want to give up."
He sat at his wife's bedside, his hand clasping hers, his gaze fixed on that green line squiggling across the oscilloscope. He looked bewildered by all the gadgetty in the room. The tubes, the monitors, the suction pump. Bewildered and afraid. He focused every ounce of attention on the EKG monitor, as though, if he could somehow master the secrets of that mysterious box, he could master everything else. He could understand why and how he had come to be sitting at the bedside of the woman he loved, the woman whose heart refused to stop beating.
It was 3 p.m., sixty-two hours since a drunk driver had slammed into KarenTerrio's car. She was thirty-four years old, HIV negative, cancer free, infection free. She was also brain dead. In short, she was a living supermarket of healthy donor organs. Heart and lungs. Kidneys. Pancreas. Liver. Bone. Corneas. Skin. With one terrible harvest, half a dozen different lives could be saved or changed for the better.
Abby pulled up a stool and sat down across from him. She was the only doctor who'd actually spent much time talking with Joe, so she was the one the nurses had called to speak to him now. To convince him to sign the papers and allow his wife to die. She sat quietly with him for a moment. Karen Terrio's body stretched between them, her chest rising and falling at a preselected twenty breaths per minute.
"You're right, Joe," said Abby. "Her heart is strong. It could keep going for some time. But not forever. Eventually the body knows. The body understands."
Joe looked across at her, his eyes red-rimmed with tears and sleeplessness. "Understands?"
"That the brain is dead. That there's no reason for the heart to keep beating."
"How would it know?"
"We need our brains. Not just to
With her stethoscope, Abby took a quick listen to the patient's lungs, then said: "Give her five milligrammes of morphine, IV."
The nurse injected an IV bolus of morphine sulphate. Just enough to dull the pain, yet allow a gentle return to consciousness. Mary's groaning ceased. The tracing on the heart monitor remained steady and regular.
"Post-op orders, Dr. Wettig?" the nurse asked.
There was a moment's silence. Abby glanced at Wetfig, who said, "Dr. DiMatteo's in charge here." And he left the room.
The nurses looked at each other. Wetfig always wrote his own post-op orders. This was another vote of confidence for Abby.
She took the chart to the desk and began to write: Transfer to 5 East, Thoracic Surgery Service. Diagnosis: Post-op open lung biopsy for multiple pulmonary nodules. Condition: stable. She wrote steadily: orders for diet, meds, activity. She reached the line for code status. Automatically she wrote: Full code.
She looked across the desk at Mary Allen, lying motionless on the gurney. Thought about what it would be like to be eighty-four years old and fiddled with cancer, the days numbered, each one filled with pain. Would the patient choose a kinder, swifter death? Abby didn't know.
"Dr. DiMatteo?" It was a voice over the intercom.
"Yes?" said Abby.
"You had a call from 4 East about ten minutes ago. They want you to come by."
"Neurosurg? Did they say why?"
"Something about a patient named Terrio. They want you to talk to the husband."
"Karen Terrio's not my patient any longer."
"I'm just passing the message along, Doctor."
"OK, thanks."
Sighing, Abby rose to her feet and went to Mary Allen's gurney for one last check of the cardiac monitor, the vital signs. The pulse was running a little fast, and the patient was moving, groaning again. Still in pain.
Abby looked at the nurse. "Another two milligrammes of morphine," she said.
The blip on the EKG monitor traced a slow and steady rhythm.
"Her heart's so strong," murmured JoeTerrio. "It doesn't want to give up. She doesn't want to give up."
He sat at his wife's bedside, his hand clasping hers, his gaze fixed on that green line squiggling across the oscilloscope. He looked bewildered by all the gadgetty in the room. The tubes, the monitors, the suction pump. Bewildered and afraid. He focused every ounce of attention on the EKG monitor, as though, if he could somehow master the secrets of that mysterious box, he could master everything else. He could understand why and how he had come to be sitting at the bedside of the woman he loved, the woman whose heart refused to stop beating.
It was 3 p.m., sixty-two hours since a drunk driver had slammed into KarenTerrio's car. She was thirty-four years old, HIV negative, cancer free, infection free. She was also brain dead. In short, she was a living supermarket of healthy donor organs. Heart and lungs. Kidneys. Pancreas. Liver. Bone. Corneas. Skin. With one terrible harvest, half a dozen different lives could be saved or changed for the better.
Abby pulled up a stool and sat down across from him. She was the only doctor who'd actually spent much time talking with Joe, so she was the one the nurses had called to speak to him now. To convince him to sign the papers and allow his wife to die. She sat quietly with him for a moment. Karen Terrio's body stretched between them, her chest rising and falling at a preselected twenty breaths per minute.
"You're right, Joe," said Abby. "Her heart is strong. It could keep going for some time. But not forever. Eventually the body knows. The body understands."
Joe looked across at her, his eyes red-rimmed with tears and sleeplessness. "Understands?"
"That the brain is dead. That there's no reason for the heart to keep beating."
"How would it know?"
"We need our brains. Not just to
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