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I knew she wasn’t the one in charge of medication, but there were too many cracks in this system. I was livid.
As I waited, I heard my name paged over the intercom at the same time my pager started beeping in my pocket.
“Dr. Ashworth, you are needed in OR four, stat.”
I took off down the hall and punched in the second floor where the surgery bays were located.
I ran toward the surgery desk. “I’m Dr. Ashworth. I had a page.”
“Oh my God, I’m so glad you’re here.” The surgical administrative attendant looked panicked, and I began to wonder if it was a member of her family that had the emergency.
“What happened? What’s going on?” I asked.
Tears welled in her eyes. “It’s Wes Blakefield.”
I blinked. I knew I was bad at names, but if this one was supposed to mean something, I was really screwed.
“You know, the quarterback for the San Antonio Wranglers? The Wes Blakefield.”
I stared dumbly. “Yes, of course. What’s the emergency?” I still had no idea who he was other than that he was an athlete.
A nurse tapped me on the shoulder. “Dr. Ashworth, come with me. We’re prepping him for surgery for you.”
I shook my head. These people were acting like the president was in here. I hadn’t even examined the patient or seen a chart or a damn x-ray.
I put up my hands. “Everyone needs to take a deep breath and slow down. I need some information before I perform any surgery.” I walked with the nurse down the hall and through the door next to the operating room.
“Here.” She flipped on the lights, projecting an x-ray onto the screen.
I looked at the hand. There were two bones distinctly out of place, and as I stepped closer, I could see a small hairline fracture on a third.
“Where did these come from?” I asked.
The resolution was perfect. Our equipment was excellent, but I’d never seen scans so clear.
“The Wranglers sent them with him,” she answered.
“And why is this an emergency?” I questioned her. Sure, it was an uncomfortable injury, but standard procedure would be to discuss options with the patient, book an OR, and then perform surgery.
“The playoffs. This is Wes Blakefield’s right hand.” She looked at me as if I were supposed to realize the significance, which I did not. “His throwing hand.”
“So?” I crossed my arms. “I can see that it’s a right hand.”
“The Super Bowl,” she emphasized. “This may be the Wranglers’ only chance. You have to repair his hand and get him back on the field immediately.”
“But I haven’t even spoken to him. And it’s not my job to help him reinjure himself. He’s going to have to heal after this. He’ll need rehab, physical therapy.”
“We already prepped him. He said to do whatever it takes. The coach says the same thing.” She stared at me, then whispered. “He’s here in the waiting room. Coach Howell.”
“Good Lord.” I threw my hands in the air. “This is not the Pope or the
Queen. It’s a quarterback? You all are acting like lunatics over a quarterback?”
“He’s the quarterback, Dr. Ashworth. And you’re the best surgeon. He wanted the best. The Wranglers wanted the best.”
I smiled at that, but the Wranglers meant nothing to me. When I lived in D.C., I knew Ben loved to watch the Sharks play football, but I never got into it. I couldn’t name a single player. To be honest, I had forgotten San Antonio even had a team. All of this meant nothing to me.
“I guess I should at least speak to the coach before I go in there. Any other relatives? Next of kin present?”
