on monday morning, a patient named guernsey, male, middle-seventies was admitted to the hospital complaining of chest pains.
he had been referred by a nursing home where the doctor had diagnosed his condition as angina pectoris. now it is axiomatic that nursing home doctors are always wrong.
the intern who admitted mr. guernsey, however, accepted the diagnosis and prescribed morphine, a drug suitable for angina but not at all suitable for emphysema, which is, unfortunately, what the old man actually had. within an hour.
the patient became unresponsive and diaphoretic and was raced up to intensive care with an irregular pulse of 150, blood pressure 90 over 60, respiration rapid and shallow.
the resident on duty now compounded the blunder by treating the old man for pulmonary edema. he gave him digitalis, diuretics and oxygen. this restored the old man's color.
and he was sent back to his room in the holly pavilion, ruddy complected and peacefully asleep.
in point of fact, the patient was in co2 narcosis.
and died at seven-thirty that evening.
i mention all this, only to explain how the bed in room 806 became available.
the intern involved was a prickly young buck named schaefer who had a good thing going for him with a technician in the hematology lab. in the haphazard fashion of hospital romances, dr. schaefer had been zapping this girl on wheelchairs, stretchers, pantry shelves.
in the kitchen, in the morgue, in the dark corners of corridors.
standing up, sitting down -- so you can imagine what an available bed meant to him.