chapter 2
fiction
HUFFINGTON
09.23.12
large bolts run through the halo and into the patient’s
skull, gripping the head rigidly in place like a Christmas
tree in its stand. A little crust of blood where the bolts penetrate the skin completes the picture. They look terrible,
but patients tell me that after the first day or so they don’t
really hurt. Getting one put
on, however: that hurts.
“So when does he get it?”
LIKE THEIR MOTHER,
I asked. Again, I knew the
WITH THEIR QUIET
answer. It was already past
noon. I was pretty sure it was
GRACE AND GENTLE
Monday.
GOOD HUMOR THEY
“Well,” the ortho resident
PUT ME IN MIND OF
replied, “it’s already past
FACES I’D SEEN IN
noon.”
OLD OIL PAINTINGS,
“And you’re in surgery.”
GLOWING AGAINST A
“Yeah.”
WARM CHIAROSCURO.
“And tomorrow?”
“Clinic. All day clinic.”
I didn’t say anything. I waited
a long time, biting my tongue.
“I guess we could do it tonight,” he said.
“That’d be nice.”
“Unless there’s an emergency, of course.”
“Of course.”
And of course there was. And clinic ran overtime the
next day, or so I was told. Their notes on the chart (they
came by each morning at 5:45) ran to five scribbled
lines, ending each time with “Plan halo. Will follow,” and
a signature and pager number I couldn’t quite decipher.
This left me holding the bag. Not only had I one more
patient crowding my census, one more patient to see in
the morning, round on and write notes about (this during the month our team set the record for admissions to
cardiology), but I also had the unpleasant responsibil-