By My Hands Read Free Page A

earlier
abdominal trouble today?”
    “I always have stomach discomfort on Sunday morning:
nerves— it goes with the job.” Adam could not understand the
purpose of her questions, and was beginning to feel guilty for his
illness. Taking a closer look at her, he saw a woman of less than
average height, no taller than five-foot-one. Her hair was black
and very short. She wore no makeup.
    “I thought clergy feared no evil. ‘Thy rod, Thy
staff’ and all that.” Her antagonism puzzled him.
    “Not fear, Doctor,” he explained patiently. “Just a
little anxiety. Keeps me humble.”
    “Have you vomited since coming out of surgery?” she
asked. “No. Just some soreness.”
    “Your chart shows that you’ve had no trouble
relieving yourself. Is that true?”
    “Uh,” Adam flushed with embarrassment. There was no
reason for abashment, but he felt his face become warm anyway.
“I’ve gone to the bathroom once.”
    “Is there anyone at home to take care of you?”
    “No, I live alone.”
    “You should have some help at home. I don’t want you
ripping sutures out trying to get out of bed.”
    “I appreciate your concern, but I think I can
manage.” Adam forced a smile.
    “It’s more caution than concern, Reverend. Be sure
you get some help for a couple of days. Can you do that?”
    “I think I can,” Adam replied quietly. Then he said
firmly, “I’m sorry.”
    “Sorry?” Dr. Tremaine said. “Sorry for what?”
    “For inconveniencing you with my illness.” Adam made
direct eye contact.
    This time she blushed. “If I seem curt, it’s because
I’ve had a rather frustrating day. I should’ve been home four hours
ago.”
    “I understand,” Adam said with a wry smile. “My day
has been rather annoying too. At least you didn’t toss your
breakfast in front of 400 people, surrender an internal organ, and
find yourself confined to bed.”
    An awkward silence hung in the room. Adam could see
his doctor’s discomfort and felt a little guilty for causing it,
but she needed to see beyond her own inconveniences.
    Dr. Tremaine started to say something when her pager
sounded. Without another word she turned and left the room. Adam
watched as she strode purposefully away. “Saved by the bell,” he
said, and then closed his eyes and searched for sleep.
     
    Monday, March 2, 1992; 4:00
A.M.
    THERE ARE FEW WARDS of a hospital more emotionally
grueling than the one in which Lisa Hailey had spent the last two
weeks. The burn ward at Kingston Memorial Hospital was considered
one of the top three in the United States. Yet, despite its
reputation, it was a horrible place to work, and an even more
horrible place in which to stay. Burn ward nurses were considered
the most dedicated and loving, yet as many as 50 percent of the
staff left every two years. Burn patients faced far more than the
usual discomfort of illness. Their pain was beyond description.
Their burned skin left nerve endings exposed and raw. The halls
were often filled with the groans of patients whose flesh had been
rendered stiff and black. The odor of scorched flesh overpowered
the usual antiseptic smells associated with hospitals. Only those
with the strongest stomachs and the highest level of dedication
chose to work here.
    Lisa was alive—barely. The emergency room doctors
had described her injuries as extensive; 60 percent of her body was
covered with the blackened flesh of third-degree burns.
    Lisa had been expected to die within one or two
days, but so far she had endured twelve days of physical and mental
anguish. Now that it appeared that she might live, there were baths
of silver nitrate, long periods in a hyperbaric chamber, and huge
quantities of fluid to receive: blood, plasma, and saline
intravenously introduced into her body. At the end of each day, she
was taken to a bed with no covering, for even a soft bed sheet on
her exposed nerves caused excruciating pain.
    The accident was still fresh in her mind. It was all
so unfair, so patently