Ethically it was wrong, of course, she knew that. But was it any less ethical than turning people out onto the streets on the basis of an arbitrary death line? Didn't Fred Walsh deserve at least the same chance as the thousands of others who sought refuge and help in these hopelessly overcrowded wards staffed by doctors and nurses working ceaselessly to save as many lives as possible, be they black, white, yellow, brown, young, or old?
"Hey, you're looking better today," she told him brightly, which wasn't an outright lie. Indeed there was a spot of color in his sagging cheeks and his lips were noticeably less blue. "How're you feeling, Fred?"
"Reminds ... me ... of ... my .. . honey . . . moon." Even with oxygen he had to draw a deep breath between each word.
Ruth smiled. "How's that, Fred?"
"Flat... on ... my .. . back . . . and . . . shorta . . . breath." He winked at her through the plastic sheet, his narrow chest rising and falling, the air wheezing and bubbling through his furred tubes. Second-stage anoxia with pneumogastric complications. An operation was out of the question; anyway it was too late. In one respect Fred was lucky. Many anoxic patients suffered a sharp decline in their mental processes, became confused and incoherent due to the reduction of oxygen-rich blood circulating through the brain. Premature senile dementia set in, turning them into cabbages.
Ruth inserted her arms into the plastic sleeves that gave access into the tent; self-sealing collars gripped her wrists. "Tell me when you feel anything," she said, pricking his toes and the soles of his feet with a surgical needle. Loss of sensation in the extremities was one of the first indications that the anoxia was getting worse.
Fred lay passively, not responding. The needle had reached his lower calf before he twitched.
"You feel that?"
He nodded. "Try . . . lower . . . down. My . . . feet ... are . . . cold."
"We'll do that tomorrow," Ruth said cheerfully. "Around here we take our time." She took hold of his hand, which felt like clammy wax, and pricked his fingers and palm.
"My . . . old . . . lady . . . came . . . yester . . . day." He paused, wheezing. "Asks. . . how . . . long . . . this. . . vacation . . . lasts."
"Well, some time yet, Fred. Why, what's she planning to do, run off with the mailman?" Ruth tried his other hand. No response there either. She pulled her arms free and dropped the needle into the bin. "Say, how do you feel about being moved to another hospital? There's a clinic in Maryland where they could take better care of you. It's a special treatment center with all the latest facilities. I think I can fix you up with a place. How about it?"
"Hopeless . . . case . . . huh?" His moist brown eyes were fixed intently on her face.
"Hell, no, I wouldn't bullshit you, Fred." Ruth lowered her voice conspiratorially. "The temptation's getting to be too strong for me. You're driving me crazy with lust. I've got to get you out of here before I disgrace myself. This thing is bigger than both of us."
"Not . . . at . . . the . . . moment . . . it . . . ain't."
"I'll give you some time to think it over, okay?" Ruth said, writing on the chart. "Talk it over with your wife. Let me know in a day or two."
Fred Walsh nodded and closed his eyes. Ruth replaced the chart at the foot of the bed and went on with her rounds.
An hour later it was blessed relief to put her feet up and relax with a cup of strong black coffee in the staff room. She'd take ten and then finish off the wards. No pathology lab tonight, unfortunately. Her duty didn't end till midnight and by then she'd be dog-tired.
The door swung open and Dr. Grant McGowan breezed in and helped himself to iced tea. McGowan was head of surgery, in his forties, and happily married with three children. He had a sympathetic ear for Ruth's grouses against Valentine, the chief pathologist, and the hospital at large.
"You still here?" she said, surprised.
McGowan scowled up at the clock. "I was on my way out when they caught me. Why do people choose such inconsiderate times to have cardiac arrest? I was all set to watch the fights on TV and I get paged at the damn door."
"Couldn't agree more'," Ruth said fervently. "All sickness and disease should stop at six p.m. on the dot. Germs and viruses knock off for the day and come back tomorrow."
MeGowan sat down in the armchair opposite and eyed her critically. "You look beat, Ruth. What is it? Too much work, not enough sleep, or both?"
"Old age."
"Are you still working in the path lab after hours?" At her nod he shook his head and sighed. "You know you're asking for trouble, don't you? Being a resident on the wards is a full-time job without waging a one-woman crusade in the name of medical science. We don't have the staff, the resources, or the backup for that."
"You sound like Valentine," Ruth replied testily.
