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By the time Dr. Croft finished with Mr. Ambedkar, I’d taken no notes. Nothing had seemed super relevant to our task force in this case, and she’d been conservative in presenting the medication options. Hardly surprising with Dr. Croft’s research. Really, she was the last doctor I should be shadowing to find room for improvement—she could probably already write the guidelines to conform to the best practices for reducing antimicrobial resistance and healthcare-associated infections. The draft I’d spent the last week on would’ve taken her a day. She only needed me to put her prowess into procedures—to push pencils.
I was a very good pencil pusher, though.
I shadowed Dr. Croft through the rest of her consults, noting where her procedures were better than what I’d seen in the past.
By the time we finished with rounds, I had filled my clipboard with a list that essentially boiled down tobe like Cassidy Croft.
Rather than touching back to me to wrap up my time here by sharing my observations, Dr. Croft answered emails on her phone. As soon as I thought she was ready to debrief, Dr. Donaldson walked up, and without a word to me, they both headed back to Infectious Disease.
I shadowed another doctor through his rounds and produced a very different list: definitely do not be like Dr. Judd. He was slightly more aggressive with antibiotics. I was not an MD, but I’d learned ciproflaxin was not only overkill as an antibiotic for a straightforward infection, but likely to create resistant bacteria—not to mention its serious side effects (which Dr. Judd also barely mentioned). With another patient, he minimized the man’s ulcer pain and prescribed metronidazole. A quick Google showed the medication could create antibacterial resistance in the man’sH. pyloriinfection. But the biggest difference between Dr. Judd and Dr. Croft was the way she truly cared about her patients.
I had a hunch that that small, human touch probably improved her patients’ outcomes more than her prescription protocols.
That afternoon, I sat at my desk and tried to figure out some way to tell her that in my first, long-delayed email about our task force. Well, telling her wasn’t the hard part. Telling her without sounding like a complete sycophant was the challenge. I was pretty sure disliking groupies was something we had in common.
I read over my latest attempt, but it was no better than the first three.Dear Dr. Croft, Thanks for letting me shadow you this morning. She hadn’t had a choice, and she hadn’t wanted to, but I had to start somewhere.Your standard of patient care sets a bar that all of our doctors should strive for.
Nope, nope, nope. I’d managed to sound like a suck up and far too clinical all at once. Nobody would want to work with someone like that. I tapped the backspace key with a little too much zeal. By the time the cursor caught up, it had taken out her last name.
A knock sounded at my open door and I looked up, then straightened when I saw my boss. “Afternoon, Dr. Okafor.”
“Hi, Davis. Just wanted to remind you to make sure you get your ID photo taken this afternoon—we’re waiting on that to get your profile on the website.”
“Oh, yes, definitely.” I was actually looking forward to having my profile on the site. Seriously dorky, but contrary to what my parents had each insisted when I’d gone to grad school, I was building a real career. I was taken seriously and treated like a team member, despite my upbringing and my wealth. I was helping people, and I was doing a good job of it, if I had to say so myself.
“Also,” Dr. Okafor continued, “I need a headcount for our table at the gala.”
If it was possible, I perked up further. A gala? “Sorry, this is the first I’ve heard.”
“Oh, it’s the hospital fundraising gala in a fortnight—no, three weeks.”
Fundraising from one’s own employees felt off, but certainly I could spare the money. “How much is a table?”
Confusion flashed across Dr. Okafor’s eyebrows. “I think it’s two thousand.”
Maybe it wasn’t so strange to ask one’s employees for so little. I could do more. “Does the hospital not make money?” I didn’t handle my doctor’s bills, but I knew they sent them.
Dr. Okafor sighed. “Well, our research arms don’t create income, and I believe this also goes toward the fund for patients who can’t afford care. And—you’ve ridden in the elevator by Infectious Disease.”
Good point. “Is there a website or—”
“I think it’s the hospital’s site, slash gala, I believe.”
I pulled up a browser and typed in the URL. “Yep, that’s it.” The photos showed an aging rockstar at the podium of an event center’s stage. Not sure that qualified as a “gala,” but it was a worthy cause. I glanced up at Dr. Okafor again. “I’ll look into it. Thanks.”
“It’s a good way to make connections with other departments, too.”
I nodded. We might need the rapport soon. Dr. Okafor waved and stepped away, and I turned back to the gala site. The picture had changed to a pair of hospital administrators. These two weren’t dating as far as I knew, but the way they angled their shoulders toward one another gave that impression.
I’d only seen proms on television, but I was pretty sure this photo sort of looked like that: generic photo background, a woman in a long dress, off the rack, and a man in a cheap suit, a couple smiling in an awkward, forced pose.
I tried to shake off a reflexive thought of Cassidy Croft. She definitely didn’t want to go to the gala or anywhere else on my arm. She probably didn’t even want to eat in the same cafeteria or third-rate convention center ballroom as me, regardless of the menu and “platinum member” status.
Still, a doctor as caring as Dr. Croft deserved to be celebrated. I hopped up from my desk—bad move after last night’s extensive leg day—and tracked Dr. Okafor down in her own office. She looked up from her computer.
“Do you know if...” How did I ask if Dr. Croft was going without mentioning her? “. . . the other departments we work with already have a table?”
“I believe Critical Care has several seats.”
