Rogue

“She hasn't regained consciousness, and the attending doesn't think she will. It's hard to say,” Thelma filled her in.

“She made a miraculous recovery last time. She's a pretty tough little kid,” Maxine commented.

“She'll have to be. It seems like she took one hell of a cocktail. Heroin, cocaine, speed, and the blood workup shows rat poison. They've apparently been cutting street heroin with some pretty nasty stuff these days. They had two kids die of it here last week. Maxine … don't get your hopes up. I don't mean to sound negative about it, but if she makes it through this, I'm not sure how much of her there'll be left.”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks for calling me. I'll get dressed and be right in. Where is she?”

“Trauma ICU. I'll be waiting for you here. Her parents are pretty upset.”

“I'll bet.” The poor people had been through it four times with a child who had been difficult since she was two. She was a nice kid, but between her bipolar disease and her heroin addiction, she had been on the fast track to disaster since she was twelve. Maxine had been seeing her for two years. She was the only child of extremely dedicated, loving parents who had done everything they could. There were some kids that, no matter how hard you tried, you just couldn't help.

Maxine had hospitalized her four times in the last two years, with very little effect. The minute she was discharged from the hospital, she was off and running again with the same disastrous friends. She had told Maxine repeatedly that she couldn't help herself. She just couldn't stay clean, and she claimed that the medications Maxine prescribed for her never took the edge off like what she bought on the street. Maxine had been afraid of this outcome for the last two years.

She was dressed in less than five minutes in loafers, a heavy sweater, and jeans. She grabbed a warm coat out of the closet, picked up her purse, and rang for the elevator. She found a cab immediately, and was at the hospital fifteen minutes after Thelma Washington, her relief doc, had called. Thelma had gone to Harvard with her, was African-American and one of the best psychiatrists she knew. And after school, and over the years of covering each other's practices, they had become friends. Privately or professionally, she knew she could always count on Thelma. They were very similar in many ways, and equally dedicated to their work. Maxine felt completely at ease leaving her patients in her hands. Maxine saw Thelma before she saw the Andersons, and Thelma quickly brought her up to speed. Hilary was in a deep coma, and so far nothing they had administered to her had brought her around. She had done it alone at home, while her parents were out. She hadn't left a note, but Maxine knew she didn't need to. She had often told Maxine that she didn't care if she lived or died. For her, and for others like her, being bipolar was just too hard.

Maxine looked upset as she read the chart, and Thelma stood by. “Jesus, she took everything but the kitchen sink,” Maxine said, looking grim, and Thelma nodded.

“Her mother said her boyfriend dumped her last night, on Thanksgiving. I'm sure that didn't help.” Maxine nodded and closed the chart. All the right things had been done. All they could do now was wait to see what happened. It was no secret to either of them, or to Hilary's parents, that if she didn't regain consciousness soon, there was a good chance she would be brain damaged forever, if she lived, which was still doubtful. Maxine was surprised she had survived what she'd taken.

“Any idea when she did it?” Maxine asked, as the two women walked down the hall together. Thelma looked tired and worried. She hated cases like this. Her own practice was far more mellow than Maxine's, but she liked covering for Maxine. Working with her patients was always a challenge.

“Probably a few hours before they found her, which is the problem. The stuff had plenty of time to work through her system. It's why the naloxone didn't help, according to the paramedics who brought her in.” Naloxone was a drug that reversed the effects of powerful narcotics, if administered soon enough. It made the difference between life and death in overdoses, and had saved Hilary four times before. It had made no difference this time, which was a very bad sign to both physicians.