Midafternoon
is a slow time, so I take a history class at UCLA, and I’m rarely disturbed.
But my phone buzzed.
“This is
International Assistance about the patient you saw today. She has begun to
vomit and wants another visit.”
That morning
I had given ibuprofen to a woman with a headache. She was in Hollywood, a
tedious eight mile drive through city streets with the rush hour beginning.
After twenty minutes of stop-and-go, a sense of unease grew. Ibuprofen shouldn’t
cause such a violent reaction. Then I remembered that the Hollywood patient was
not from International Assistance but World Assistance.
International
Assistance had called the previous night at 1 a.m. and sent me to the Airport
Hilton for a guest suffering a backache. I’d given an injection and left strong
pain pills for later. I checked caller ID on my cell phone and, sure enough,
I’d jumped to the wrong conclusion.
The Hilton
was in the opposite direction. It took another twenty minutes to reach the
freeway and join the rush hour creep.
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