spun around. “Oh, hi, Dr. Hamilton. Sorry, didn’t hear you come in.” She took a deep breath before returning to Baker to prod her shoulder. “Leslie! Wake up. Dr. Hamilton’s here to see you.”
Bobbie’s eyes flickered open but squinted in the light.
Sarah leaned over the side rail and gently squeezed the young woman’s hand. “Hi, kiddo.”
Way Sarah saw it, Bobbie owed her life to the Mariners’ lousy bullpen. If they had put away the Oakland batters instead allowing base hits, Bobbie’s husband, Trent, might’ve stayed at Safeco Field. Instead, he walked out before the end of the seventh inning, came home, found her sprawled over the couch barely breathing, and called 9-1-1.
She should be dead.
Bobbie closed her eyes and turned her head away.
The nurse shrugged. “Her blood gases looked good enough for a trial off the respirator. She’s been on room air since eight o’clock. Plan to check another gas in a few minutes. If things still look good, they’ll pull the tube.”
As a psychiatrist, Sarah wasn’t responsible for Bobbie’s ICU care, because Neurology handled overdoses. Bobbie had become her patient in the early morning hours two weeks ago when she showed up in the Emergency Room after being seen but not treated at the Lakeview ER.
“What’s up?” She asks the ER doc who had called her down for a consult at 2 AM . She’s standing at the nursing station, the usual early morning bedlam of a busy ER playing out around them.
He glances up from the chart he’s involved with. “She’s nuts.”
“Can you be a little more specific?”
Obviously irritated at the interruption, he sniped, “You’re the shrink, ask her. Room 5,” and returns to filling out a form. Then as an afterthought he added, “Husband’s name’s Trent.”
“She remembers the delivery in so much detail—right down to the name of the nurses and the date and the time—that it just sounds too real to be made up.” Trent admits.
Sarah asks, “Yet you say she’s never been pregnant?”
He shakes his head. “No, never. And I know what you’re thinking. Believe me, I would know if she had been.”
She looks at Bobbie, curled into the fetal position on the exam table, picking at something on the sheet only she can see. Sarah believes the acute problem is psychosis due to seventy-two consecutive hours of sleep deprivation. She tells Trent, “I’m sorry Lake view wouldn’t take her, but they don’t have an inpatient psych ward other than the medical ward of the county jail. We do. I think she needs to be admitted and allowed to sleep. The Haldol looks to be kicking in, so she should be okay.”
Trent appears grateful. “Thank you, doctor. But what’s causing the memories?”
Sarah didn’t have any idea. “Let’s take one thing at a time, get her settled down, and then see what we can find out.” She circles back to an important point. “The head injury, can you tell me a little more about it?” Trent has initially glossed over it, as if it were something difficult to discuss.
He puts a protective hand on Bobbie’s shoulder, lowers his voice, and looks past Sarah at a spot far away. “She just got in her car … it was at Walmart, the parking lot … this guy jumped in the passenger seat and pulled a gun on her.” He swallows, looks at the floor. “Forced her to drive to this deserted road and raped her. Beat her pretty bad too. Would’ve died except for a jogger found her and called 9-1-1.”
Sarah looks at the still-visible scar on Bobbie’s head. “Was that when her head was operated on?”
“Yeah. The docs at Lakeview saved her life. That’s why I couldn’t understand why they didn’t admit her tonight. I mean, she was their patient.”
Bobbie’s diagnosis had morphed into the psychiatric case from hell. No psychiatrist on staff had ever seen anything like it. And Sarah couldn’t find a case in the literature to come close to resembling hers. The symptoms—vivid memories of
Bobbie’s eyes flickered open but squinted in the light.
Sarah leaned over the side rail and gently squeezed the young woman’s hand. “Hi, kiddo.”
Way Sarah saw it, Bobbie owed her life to the Mariners’ lousy bullpen. If they had put away the Oakland batters instead allowing base hits, Bobbie’s husband, Trent, might’ve stayed at Safeco Field. Instead, he walked out before the end of the seventh inning, came home, found her sprawled over the couch barely breathing, and called 9-1-1.
She should be dead.
Bobbie closed her eyes and turned her head away.
The nurse shrugged. “Her blood gases looked good enough for a trial off the respirator. She’s been on room air since eight o’clock. Plan to check another gas in a few minutes. If things still look good, they’ll pull the tube.”
As a psychiatrist, Sarah wasn’t responsible for Bobbie’s ICU care, because Neurology handled overdoses. Bobbie had become her patient in the early morning hours two weeks ago when she showed up in the Emergency Room after being seen but not treated at the Lakeview ER.
“What’s up?” She asks the ER doc who had called her down for a consult at 2 AM . She’s standing at the nursing station, the usual early morning bedlam of a busy ER playing out around them.
He glances up from the chart he’s involved with. “She’s nuts.”
“Can you be a little more specific?”
Obviously irritated at the interruption, he sniped, “You’re the shrink, ask her. Room 5,” and returns to filling out a form. Then as an afterthought he added, “Husband’s name’s Trent.”
“She remembers the delivery in so much detail—right down to the name of the nurses and the date and the time—that it just sounds too real to be made up.” Trent admits.
Sarah asks, “Yet you say she’s never been pregnant?”
He shakes his head. “No, never. And I know what you’re thinking. Believe me, I would know if she had been.”
She looks at Bobbie, curled into the fetal position on the exam table, picking at something on the sheet only she can see. Sarah believes the acute problem is psychosis due to seventy-two consecutive hours of sleep deprivation. She tells Trent, “I’m sorry Lake view wouldn’t take her, but they don’t have an inpatient psych ward other than the medical ward of the county jail. We do. I think she needs to be admitted and allowed to sleep. The Haldol looks to be kicking in, so she should be okay.”
Trent appears grateful. “Thank you, doctor. But what’s causing the memories?”
Sarah didn’t have any idea. “Let’s take one thing at a time, get her settled down, and then see what we can find out.” She circles back to an important point. “The head injury, can you tell me a little more about it?” Trent has initially glossed over it, as if it were something difficult to discuss.
He puts a protective hand on Bobbie’s shoulder, lowers his voice, and looks past Sarah at a spot far away. “She just got in her car … it was at Walmart, the parking lot … this guy jumped in the passenger seat and pulled a gun on her.” He swallows, looks at the floor. “Forced her to drive to this deserted road and raped her. Beat her pretty bad too. Would’ve died except for a jogger found her and called 9-1-1.”
Sarah looks at the still-visible scar on Bobbie’s head. “Was that when her head was operated on?”
“Yeah. The docs at Lakeview saved her life. That’s why I couldn’t understand why they didn’t admit her tonight. I mean, she was their patient.”
Bobbie’s diagnosis had morphed into the psychiatric case from hell. No psychiatrist on staff had ever seen anything like it. And Sarah couldn’t find a case in the literature to come close to resembling hers. The symptoms—vivid memories of
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