Doing Harm Read Online Free Page B

attentively over my coffee, interjecting now and then with questions, suggestions, or instructions on how to best take care of the patients. Most mornings, once he finishes going down his list of patients, I’ll usually give Luis some more work to do, then retreat to the operating room to enjoy myself.
    This morning is no different. After he finishes his report, I tick off the list of tasks—the scut—I want him to complete on each of the patients. Increase Mr. Kellogg’s IV fluids; he’s dehydrated. Switch Mrs. Cardoza to oral pain medications. Have physical therapy work with Mr. James; he’s been a slug since his surgery and won’t get out of bed. Order a CT scan for Mr. Richards; he’s been having persistent fevers and belly pain the last few days, and I’m worried he might have an abscess lurking somewhere in his abdomen. Complete the discharge paperwork for Ms. Tang.
    With each of my directives, Luis nods and writes something on his sheet of paper.
    “We have a med student starting with us on service this morning,” he says when we’re done, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his palm over the top of his head, like he’s polishing a doorknob. “She rounded with me earlier. She’s at a student orientation or something right now, but she’s going to meet up with us here in a few minutes.”
    “How is she?”
    “Smart. Definitely knows her way around the hospital.”
    “Oh yeah?” I ask, marginally interested. Med students are usually pretty clueless. And therefore useless. “What’s her name?”
    “Gigi. G-I-G-I. Gigi Maxwell. People say her first name should be more like, ‘GG.’ As in the letters G-G. Short for ‘Golden Girl.’ Because she’s such a terrific student. The word on the street is that she’s been knocking it out of the park on her other clinical rotations. Hard worker, great attitude, whip smart.”
    GG. “Nice break for you. I’m sure she can help you out with some of your scut.”
    “Yeah. Look.” He glances around and then leans toward me over the table. “You’re married, right, Steve?” he asks, sotto voce. I can barely hear him over the din around us. I nod, curious as to where he’s going with this. “Good. Let me warn you up front anyway.” He lowers his voice even further, so that I have to scoot forward to make him out. “She’s also pretty cute. With a good-sized rack on her. It’s hard not to notice. A bunch of the surgery residents have been trying their best to get in her pants.”
    “Is she letting them?”
    “No. That’s my point. Exactly the opposite. She filed a formal complaint against Connors last month for putting his hand on her ass in the OR.”
    “Connors.” I guffaw. “The guy’s a douche bag. Thinks with his prick. He’s banged half the nurses in the hospital.”
    “Right.” Luis leans back and drapes his elbows on the back of the chair. “I for one am interested in keeping my job. Thought you would be, too. Wanted you to know the situation.”
    “Thanks, Luis.” I’m grateful for the heads-up. It’s not like I’m going to be hitting on her or anything, attractive or not, but sexual harassment has been a pretty sensitive topic around here for a while, ever since a drunken neurosurgery professor groped a few female residents half his age at an out-of-town conference a few months ago. Surgery has always been a male-dominated field; and its men’s locker-room sensibilities have proven remarkably resistant to twenty-first-century notions of gender equality. Especially at a traditional place like University.
    Anyway, after the neurosurgeon-groping thing blew up in a very public, embarrassing, and litigious way, every surgeon in the hospital—residents and professors alike, male and female—has had to suffer through sensitivity training lectures and weekly e-mail blasts reminding us of the importance of maintaining a nonhostile work environment. In the current climate, saying the wrong thing about, doing the wrong thing to, or