Chapter 3 begins

     Around 9:00, in the p.m., one warm Spring evening, a few hours after Azir had returned from his trip, Michael met up with his business partner at a quaint, 50's style, silver dining car restaurant, the Silver Palm, off Milwaukee Boulevard, a favorite of a great many of the populous. Azir had been waiting a while as Michael was stuck in a bit of traffic on the nearby Kennedy Expressway. Michael entered the small diner, the aroma of slabs of ham on the grill, and frying bacon, permeated the air the familiar scent very pleasing as he went over to the table in front of a long window. Azir smiled, looking much darker, super tan from the sun, looking happy and well rested from his travels. Even though Azir had been kept waiting, and Azir hated to be kept waiting, he smiled warmly as he stood, shaking Michael's hand saying a bit sarcastically "So nice of you to join us."
    The two men sat as the friendly waiter came by taking Michael's order. "I'll have a 3 Little Pigs, with onion rings and a Pabst Blue Ribbon." He said, not needing a menu, as he had been coming to the Silver Palm since his first year of Med-School back in '82. Azir was no fool, and, even though the contents of the world famous sandwich was not exactly allowed by his religion, for he was devout and a strict vegetarian, however, irrespective of this, Azir ordered the same exact thing as Michael. Azir concluded this act was a mere sin against his body, and not a sin against his gods. Now, as the chef prepared their meal; which consisted of, thin slices of grilled, smoked ham, topped with a deep fried breaded veal cutlet, with three, thick slices of pepper bacon, and two fried eggs, smothered in melted Gruyere cheese, all served between two slices of a grilled brioche bun and, as all the locals do, wash it all down with a couple of cold bottles of Pabst, Azir and Michael chatted about their time off and then the subject turned to business.
     "Listen," Azir said a twinkle in his eye as if he had just discovered a secret of the universe "I have a question for you." he said with a note of excitement.
     "If you have a question, then I'm sure I have an answer." Michael said in his usual way.
     "What if I told you we could make twice as much money everyday, without having to work any extra hours?"
     "Well that would be amazing!" he said a bit incredulous. "How?"
     "First, let me answer your question with another question." Azir paused  with a serious look asking Michael candidly "How much do you still owe on your student loans at Northwestern?"
     Michael was shocked by Azir's question, for his loan was not something he was proud of, nor did Michael like discussing his finances with anyone. So Michael hesitated for a moment while Azir gave him a knowing look as if to say 'come on and tell me, you know you want to'. So Michael ordered another round of beers and then he said with a sigh "$120,000.00."
     "Damn Son!" Azir said choking a little on his beer, as he had no idea it was that much. "Fuck that's a lot of money! How long were you in school? Twenty years?" Azir laughed but Michael did not for he was embarrassed and far from amused. "Listen, I shouldn't laugh, and it really is none of my business."
     "A lot of that is interest, penalties and fees for late payments, I'll have you know!" Michael retorted in his own defence.
     "Okay, so we have a number.., an amount.., but let's break it down." Azir said as he leaned forward "If you wanted to pay that off in ten years, that's.., $12,000.00 a year. If you paid it down in five years, that's $24,000, for five years.., of course that is not even factoring in interest and penalties. And, of course,  you have your living expenses, rent., insurance, car payments, whiskey, and women etc, etc..." Azir paused.
     "Yes, and?" Michael replied uncertain where his friend was going with his line of questions.
     "Well, what if I told you I have found a way where you could pay off your loan, and all your other debts in one year?"
     Here the waiter brought forth from the kitchen the mouthwatering, towering, lovingly prepared sandwiches, and after the waiter gave them a stack of extra napkins, Michael leaned over his enormous plate of food and said to Azir "I think it sounds too good to be true, but you have my full attention."

   

    

End Chapter 2

     So it came to pass Michael Cullen accepted his friends offer and the two formed a partnership, with Michael running the clinic, and Azir filling all the prescriptions in the pharmacy next door. Everything went well with their business venture, Michael grew accustomed to working closely with his patients. It felt good to know he no longer, literally, had their lives in his hands. Treating, colds, flu, strep, pneumonia, hypertension, diabetes, etc... was far easier to do then sedate a 300lb man, or a 30lb little girl, where the outcome of an incorrect dosage would, and had, resulted in eight of his patients ultimate demise.
     So it was Michael got up early every morning to be at the clinic by 7:00 a.m., and he had grown accustom to the south side of Chicago and her people. Whom he found to have hearts as big as their smiles and it did the young doctor's heart good to know the fine people of the neighboring communities. Michael delighted in the laughter and the bright eyes of the little children, so full of wonder playing with his stethoscope and pen light, telling him they wanted to be a doctor someday, MIchael fell in love with the old, refined, dignified, African American ladies who would bring him by a nice home made cake, or pie every now and again, always trying to convince him he should "marry soon and start a family", they would always say, 'find yourself a girl and settle down'. As for the violence and crime Michael had come to associate with city's southern half, it was true, but no so terrifying as the local media had made it out to be. Azir and Michael were pretty much left alone to tend to their business in the daytime hours, for you see, gang bangers may not catch a bullet, but you know they can catch the flu! So the nefarious types and malingerers minded their own business, leaving Azir and Michael to run theirs in peace. However, just as a precaution, Azir always, without fail, let his two giant, pit bull mastiffs out to run loose in the pharmacy at night, to protect the drugs, for as every 9th grader knows, prescription drugs are worth a lot of money.
     Months went by, Summer came and went, Fall whirled by in an instant bringing in Winter and the cold and the snow. It was a very mild winter that year, nothing like the blizzard that hit in December '78 and didn't let up until February '79, leaving behind 897 inches of snow, burying the city for weeks. Not this year however, and the citizens of Chicago breathed a sigh relief when Spring returned once again with the birds, the radiant sunshine and bright green leaves and fresh blossoms on the trees. It was the middle of March when Azir decided to close the clinic and pharmacy down so each man could relax and go on a four day vacation. Michael needed a break and he had become very lonely working such long hours, seeing patients all day, he never found the time to go and play. So Michael went home and slept his vacation away, only venturing out one night, but that ended in disaster when the girl he had brought home for a 'roll in the hay' had stolen his watch as she made her way out of his apartment, while Michael had passed out from too much whiskey and too much sex. So he stayed home after that.
     Azir, however, spent the next four days on the sunny, warm shores of Miami, baking his skin in the sun, with two of his favorite girlfriends. He had told/lied to his wife saying he was attending a Pharmaceutical  Manufactures conference at the Fountain Bleu, 'and no', he informed her, 'wives were not invited'. You should note Azir had three of the key ingredients to a successful marriage, Unity, Respect,and Honor, but these were all useless to him with out Loyalty. So his marriage suffered a little, but his wife still had a big house, expensive cars, fine clothes, furs, jewels, schools for their children. So it was difficult for Azir to even see there was a problem with his marriage. It seemed soaking up the sun on the white sandy beaches of Florida, surrounded by the bright blue ocean, and two beautiful blonds, helped to push these thoughts far to the back of his mind. Three days were spent in fun and pleasure together, much food and wine and flesh, of all kinds, were enjoyed and consumed, and it was not until the second day when Azir happened to come upon a clever scheme a local pharmacist had going on at his corner shop. Now after learning more over drinks poolside with this 'local man' Azir thought he might take his idea back up to Chicago and make some serious big time money by changing the family clinic, to a pain clinic, and start up his own 'Prescription Mill'.

Chapter 2 continues

     Azir began telling his story to Michael, who sat back drinking his milk eating his tiramisu listening attentively as his dark eyed friend spoke "Well you know I left the hospital and opened my own pharmacy/family clinic last year?"
     Michael nodded saying "Yes, the one on the south side."
     "Yeah, over by Douglas Park near the Mt. Sinai Hospital district." Azir added picking up the thread of his tale once more  "Well, you know I had a partner, old Doctor Crenshaw..," Azir paused with a look of lamentation "Well.., I've just come from his funeral, that's where I've been all day." Azir sighed pushing his half eaten slice of pizza away from him.
     Michael was stunned, as his friend was now only just mentioning it. "My condolences to you Azir, I am sorry to hear that." he said with great sympathy.
     "Thanks Mike, that means a lot comin' from you." Azir managed a bit of a smile, then the terrible look of sadness washed over his face again "Yeah, he stroked out at his desk at the clinic, I came across his body slumped over..," Azir recalled the day in his mind's eye. "At least he died doing what he loved..," here a brief pause "You know he had been practicing medicine for fifty years!" another pause for reflection "He was 73 years old! Damn I hope I don't live to be that old! Can you imagine?"
     Michael did not know what to say to that, for he himself hoped to live to be a ripe old age surrounded by grandchildren and a loving, caring wife. However, the Fates had a different idea about his certain future. "So what will you do now? Close up shop for a while?" Michael tried to move the subject of the matter forward and not dwell upon the death of one dead doctor.
     "Well, I'm not sure, what to do.., but, I do have bills to pay," here he paused then added "Finding a doctor, to run the clinic, will take sometime.., unless." Azir leaned forward with a serious stare.
     "Unless?" Michael asked knowing full well what Azir was about to ask.
     "Unless, you would like to take Dr.Reardon's advice and become a General Practitioner. Run the clinic for me, treat the patients, write the prescriptions.You could still practice medicine, in a non-surgical setting, still make money to pay off your loans, and keep your good name as a physician, this would also help to rehabilitate your reputation! I would get to stay open and take care of my kids, my wife, and my girlfriends. It's a win/win situation!"
     "Listen I don't have the best bedside manner with patients." Michael confessed.
     "Mike, buddy, what you may lack in bedside manner, you make up for in good looks and charm. And with good looks and charm you will always be in high demand!" Azir complimented his handsome friend.
     Michael said nothing, the main contention of thought that came to his mind was working on the south side, with the poor and less well educated of Chicago's socio-economically challenged population. Michael was well aware of the gangs, drugs, violence, rapes and murders on that side of town, but he also knew that sick people needed help no matter where they come from. "Azir, listen, what can I say. I'll give it some thought, but as for now, let's box this pizza up and you can drive me home. I just want to take a nice hot shower, a few Nembutal and sleep for the next two days.
     "Alright, but just promise you will give it some earnest thought. We should really make this happen Mike, I'm looking forward to working with you!" Azir smiled shaking Michael's hand across the table as if they had just struck up a deal.
   

Chapter 2 begins

     "Mike! What the fuck?" You look like shit! Was that you yackin' up in the toilet?"
     "Hello Azir." Michael replied to his friend, Azir Naphtali, whom he had not seen in a while.
     "You sick or something?" he asked with a look of concern gently rubbing his tall friend on the back as he bent over the sink. "Damn I've never seen you so terrible looking before.., for once I look better than you." Azir smiled and he did look good, wearing a dark blue suit and tie, expensive Italian shoes and, even though he was a man of small stature, 5 foot 6 inches to be exact, Azir always played the part of the sharp dressed man. Michael was glad to see his friend who had come to Chicago from Bombay at an early age with his loving and protective family, had studied hard and become a successful Pharmacist, with a lovely dark skinned beauty for a bride and three adorable little boys. Michael was happy to see a friendly face. "Listen, we need to get you outta here! Quick! Before you make all these happy people sad!"
     "I have to pay my tab and there's a girl out there waiting for me at the bar." Michael explained.
     "Here," Azir handed Michael his car keys "Go out and get in my 'vette it's parked across the street. I'll settle your tab and then I'll take you home, maybe stop by my pharmacy and get you some prescription strength Emetrol." Michael thought this was a very good idea.
       As Michael slipped out of the noisy, overcrowded bar Azir went over getting Margaret's attention. When he explained Michael was not feeling well she said the only thing Michael owed her was a kiss, when he was feeling better of course. Azir could not help but notice the hot piece of ass in the little plaid skirt, but he did not get her telephone number for his buddy, because Azir was convinced this girl was probably sixteen with a fake I.D., so he hightailed it out of the smokey pub, promising Margaret he would come back Sunday morning to 'chubb up' one of her full Irish breakfasts, the perfect cure for a hangover.
     Michael stood out by the white column of the corner bar underneath the old clock, it was now a little after eight, the air was cisp and clear and it was very dark. The street lights and passing cars hurt Michael's eyes and he felt a migraine headache coming on. The two men got into the shiny, highly polished yellow classic '69 Corvette and drove off on Ravenswood Avenue with the windows rolled down. The cool, fresh air blowing through their hair, filling their lungs and genlty caressing their faces. Michael felt a little better leaving the noise of the crowd and the lively music behind. As they headed down Sunny Side, Azir stopped at a red light and that is when the delicious aroma of pizza baking in a brick oven wafted through the air, the tantalizing scent carried upon the breeze. Both men sniffed at the air, Azir smiled and said "It's coming from over there." Azir pointed towards a new pizzeria, called Spacca Napoli, and who doesn't love a nice thick slice of cheesy Neapolitan style pizza. So Azir pulled over and the two men went into the little restaurant; which was inviting and welcoming with the custom built pizza oven in the corner filling the small space with a warm ambiance, as warm and friendly as the smiles on the young women's faces who came to greet them. The lovely hostess sat the two, good looking gentlemen, at a table nearest to the hearth of the large brick oven.
     "Thank you, it smells absolutely delicious in here." Azir said, flirting with the young waitress, who came to take their order, saying "That's a pretty name, for a pretty face." when she told him her name was Lucia "Now, Lucia, my friend is not feeling so well, as you can tell by looking at him." Azir paused giving a little laugh "Can you please bring him a nice, ice cold, glass of milk? And when I say ice cold, I mean I want you to, literally, put ice cubes in it." here Michael gave a grimace to his Indian friend. "Trust me, it is the best thing for you, and also bring him a piece of tiramisu, and..," he paused looking over the menu "then a large Donna Regina, the white pie, with extra mozzarella and throw some spinach on top of it, please, and I'll have a cup of hot tea, with extra lemon. Thanks, your a doll." Azir smiled then he turned his attention to Michael  giving him serious, concerned look, then he leaned over and said "So spill it Mike, you look like a man who just slit his own wrists."
     Michael took in a deep breath and placed his head in his hands, rubbing the temples of his forehead and then he opened up his mouth and the truth of his sitiuation came pouring out, like water coming down a mountain. Now, in the time it took their pizza to bake in the hand made oven, Azir sat there across the table, shocked by Michael's tale of misery and woe. It was a very hard story to listen to, Azir knew of his good friend's problems in the past at other hospitals, but he knew how detrimental this would be, not only to Dr. Cullen's career, but also on his overall mental and pysical health.
     Azir sat back saying nothing just sipping his tea, a nice blend of cheery/apricot, as Michael drank the cold milk; which did help to coat and soothe his stomach. The two men sat there in silence as Frank Sinatra's voice sang over the speakers in the nearly empty restaurant. Azir was deep in thought taking in what his, overly depressed, friend had just told him. After thinking long and hard, Azir leaned over the table and said "Listen Mike, what can I say, that was the saddest story I have heard in a long time.., but..," Azir paused and gave a cunning look saying "I think I have an idea that might help you."
  

End Chapter 1

     It was a little after 7 o'clock as Dr. Cullen exited the Ravenswood Hospital a newer, high rise, dark red brick and concrete building, never looking back at the last hospital he would ever be able to work in. So enormous was the strain of guilt and humiliation our poor, dejected, Michael could not even bring himself to get into his new red BMW sports sedan, for he was sure to do so would see him come to a watery grave after he drove his  prize automobile off Navy Pier and into the swirling depths of Lake Michigan. Letting out a heavy sigh Michael slipped his keys into the pocket of his blue jeans, as he headed west down Montrose for a few blocks, as he watched the golden sun set through the bright green leaves of the trees that rustled in a gentle warm breeze on this late spring evening. Michael could hear children laughing off in the distance as they played together in their yards. When he came to Ravenswood Avenue Michael turned right, going north up two more blocks to a favorite local, Lincoln Square Area, authentic Irish Pub, called O'shuagnessy's, after the owners Margaret and William, a delightful elderly couple from the old country who always had a smile, a hearty laugh and they always brought you a wee more than a pint. Michael stood out front for a moment as he saw and heard the crowd of people and the Celtic rock band playing inside loudly from the stage and then Michael realized it was the 17th, and here at O'shuagnessy's, St. Patrick's day was celebrated the 17th, of every month come rain or shine.
     Undaunted to be kept from a nice glass of whiskey, Michael stepped into the bar with a throbbing in his head, a rumbling in his stomach and a shadow upon his soul. Margaret noticed the tall, handsome Doctor she had come to love as one of her own, was not standing so tall as usual, nor had he a smile upon his face, just a frown on his furrowed brow, with a terrible look of sadness on his face. As he stepped up to her crowded bar Margaret, giving a sympathetic look, asked him "What's the matter love? You look like someone just drown your puppy!" Margaret spoke loudly, to be heard over the crowd, with a look of great solace and comfort in her old Irish eyes. Her comment made Michael smile, if but for a brief moment. Michael remained silent, unwilling to talk, only shaking his head saying nothing, and that was fine by her. So the dear sweet woman poured out a Jameson's on the rocks for him, then she hurried off to tend to the rest of her happy, alcohol filled patrons. She was kind enough to leave the bottle. Michael poured out two or three shots; which he slammed back, instead of sipping; which is how whiskey is supposed to be enjoyed. The noise, the music, the laughter, the cigarette smoke made the churning in Michael's stomach all the more unbearable. While Michael was busy slamming back glass after glass,  he hardly noticed the attractive, red headed lass whom had sallied up to the bar next to him. She nudged the tall, blond, ice- blue eyed stranger on the arm and introduced herself, a name Michael did not care to remember. It was not that she was not his type, no, she was tall, long thin legs, tiny waist, wearing a short, green plaid, school girl skirt, with a pair of black patent leather 'fuck me' pumps, and girly-white, frilly ankle socks, and a tiny white cotton shirt which was unbuttoned and tied around her ample bosom, exposing the skin of her belly and her flesh was the color of peaches and cream.
     Now she gave Michael a strange look when he did not smile back, or tell her his name, then she said something he could not hear above the roar of the crowd, but he could tell by the expression on her face she was not accustomed to being ignored. So, feeling awkward, Michael leaned over and said "I am so sorry, how rude of me. Please forgive me, I am just having a really bad day." he apologized to the pretty lady offering her some of what was left of the bottle of whiskey.
     She only smiled and leaned in and whispered in his ear, tickling the flesh of his neck with her hot breath, as she said "Well.., would you like to have better night?" she laughed making a purring sound as she helped herself to a glass.
    Michael smiled and thought it might be a good release of tension, frustration, anger and rage bouncing this young lady around his bed for an hour or two... However, no sooner did this thought come to his head, Michael watched as his new sex partner reached into her handbag and pulled out a thin brown cigarillo, a Swisher Sweet, lighting it with her silver lighter. Suddenly the smell of the burning sickly sweet, dried tobacco smoke filled his nostrils, and the stench of the scent sent him running for the bathroom as the nausea brewing up in his belly could not be held back any further. Michael flew into the men's room throwing open an empty stall as he bent over and wretched up the entire contents of his stomach, his lunch; which was comprised of 2, 'mother-in-law dog's' from Fat Johnnie's, half a bottle of good whiskey and the partially undigested pills; which could not be absorbed through all the chili, cheese, tamales, and hot dogs. This was why the six Vicodin had not taken their normal desired effect. Michael coughed up a bit more chunks of his lunch before he flushed away the chili colored vomit, and stench, down the toilet. Michael staggered out over to the sink splashing cold water on his reddened face and fevered brow, then he rinsed out his mouth  with a handful of water and liquid soap; which tasted much better than what had just come up out of his stomach. The noise from the crowd and band seemed to be increasing along with the pounding in his head, and as he bent over the sink for one more soothing splash of cold water Michael heard a familiar voice calling his name.

Chapter 1 continues

     So it was, 24 hours later, on a bright, clear, Midwestern day on the 17th of May, Dr. Michael Cullen made his way to the Hospital Administrators office around 5:00 in the p.m.. Dr. Cullen felt sick to his stomach and he had a splitting headache, yet somehow the vast quantities of Vicodin he had taken had done nothing to abate his anguish, both physical and mental. As he proceeded off the elevator and down the long hallway Dr. Cullen noticed a maintenance man removing one of the framed photographs from the hospital's 'Wall of Physician's'. Here the workman turned to greet the approaching member of the hospital staff, then the old man recognized the man from the face in picture, so he gave the young doctor a strange look as if to say he was sad and sorry for him. Then Michael noticed the row where the worker stood, it was the group of anesthesiologists, all seven of them, and there Dr. Cullen did not see his photograph, for it was in the old workman's hands.
     "Good morning." the pale, frail, grey haired man spoke softly as the doctor passed, then he bowed his head slightly, averting his old eyes away from the young doctor, as if he were a man being sent off to the guillotine.
     Dr. Cullen did not reply merely nodding to the little old man, whom he towered over and Michael thought it strange he had never seen, or noticed, this maintenance worker before. Michael felt very uncomfortable in this little old man's presence. However, with the cloud of doom of uncertainty looming over his head, Michael brushed this encounter away from his present mind as he stopped at the office of the Hospital Administrator. He took in a deep breath, exhaled and knocked. Dr. Cullen was summoned into the large office where he was sickened to see, not only the Hospital Administrator, but there sat the Chief of Surgery, the Head of the Board of Anesthesiologist, and Dr. Reardon. Each sat around the large desk with stacks of files and a terrible look of indignation upon their old, tired faces.
     "Have a seat." they told him. Now Michael sat himself down and was quiet and listened to everything they ALL had to say. He tried to retain a small shred of dignity and civility and show these 'Great Men' the respect they were due, after all they had, each, been in medicine for at least twenty to thirty years. Much more than he. Being that our poor, stupid Michael was all but 33,  what he lacked in experience he made up for with gross incompetence, and Michael knew this, and was fully aware of the fact. But the truth is always so hard to hear, especially when it is coming from people you have admired.
     "Now what it boils down to, Michael." the administrator said; which offended Michael as he did not call him Dr. Cullen. "You know as well as I do the malpractice insurance for some one in your specialized area of medicine is over $250,000.00 a year, and unless you can pay for your own policy we can not keep you on our insurance, it's not ethically, or fiscally responsible. So, it is my duty to inform you, as of now, you are no longer allowed to practice medicine at this hospital at the present time."
     Michael knew what the man would say hours before he said it, and when they asked if he could afford the premiums on a malpractice policy of his own, Michael said nothing merely shaking his head no.
     The room, full of brilliant men, and Michael, was quiet for few moments as they asked Michael to sign a few legal documents then they spoke to him trying to give the dejected young man a few words of encouragement. They were telling Michael how he was, obviously, not cut out for specialized medicine and suggested he move into the field of General Practitioner. They stated with the ever expanding population and the decreasing numbers of medical students the State would need more and more G.P.'s over the coming years. They said unless the family of Owen David sued, the Illinois Board of Medicine would not be notified of the 'incident'. Meaning he could still retain his license to practice Medicine in the State of Illinois. They all agreed they had all 'lost dozens of patients over the years', saying 'things happen in surgery', 'sometimes you have a bad day'. Here Michael remained silent, thinking yeah, at most jobs a bad day is hours stuck in traffic, a lost file, missing money, on his 'bad days' somebody fucking dies! Saying nothing Michael sat and listened, but most of everything they said sounded like they were trying to speak to him underwater, or from very far away. He felt uncomfortably numb, as if he had just swallowed a bomb.
     Now, Michael was uncertain just how long he had been in the office signing documents, listening to the sage advice of these three, well educated, well thought of, respected men, it could have been an hour it could have been days, all Michael remembered was when they had come to the end of their discourse Dr. Reardon looked over at Michael, touching him on the arm to get his attention, saying "Do you understand what we are trying to explain?"
     Dr. Cullen sighed, smiled and said "Gentleman.., Doctors! I can only say one thing." he paused and with a terrible sadness in his ice blue eyes Michael said "I agree with each and everyone of you! 100%, and I know you're right." long pause, understanding looks, a few shakes of their hands and pats on the back, and that was that, it was all over. Dr. Michael Cullen exited the office, closing the door slowly behind him, as he found himself back out in the hallway, where, to his surprise, he saw the little grey haired workman waiting there beside the door. Without so much as a word he handed over the framed photograph of Dr. Cullen that he had removed from the wall, two hours before. Michael was shocked the little old man had waited so long out in the hallway just to give him a picture that was 2 years old. This small act of kindness amazed Michael and a wee bit of cheer lifted his heavy heart. He thanked the old man who scurried off quickly down the long corridor, moving rather spryly for an old fellow. Michael turned and headed back towards the elevator and as he waited, and on the way down the empty elevator Michael looked at his image in the photograph, A bright perfect smile, bright clear, sharp eyes, he smirked at the picture of his handsome, happy, former self. He felt a deep welling  of contempt for the face he stared at, the good looking doctor, rich and affluent, whom all the ladies loved! However, the truth of the matter was, Dr. Michael Cullen was an  incompetent failure, who had just been banned from his third hospital in a row, after losing his eighth patient. Not only was he deeply in debt from years of student loans, but he was also addicted to various prescription pills and couldn't keep a girlfriend if his life depended on it, bouncing from bed to bed, blond to brunette. As the elevator doors slid open Michael passed a trash bin and tossed his photograph into the garbage as he made his way out of Ravenswood Hospital for the last time, with only one thing on his mind and that was whiskey, Irish Whiskey!
    

Chapter 1 begins

     "Dr. Cullen!" the nurse shouted "We're losing him! Pulse and blood pressure dropping rapidly! Heart rate decreasing!"
     Dr. Cullen felt a rush of panic sweep over him, as a sinking feeling churned in the pit of his stomach, as he stood there motionless by his sedated patients head, thinking 'Oh no, not again.'
     The lead surgeon called out to his nurses "We're gonna have to open him up!" The well seasoned physician called for a scalpel and two protractors. Dr. Cullen realized he had given too much Diprivan to Mr.David, as he monitored the patients weakening vital signs. The chest cavity was sliced, then split apart exposing the lungs; which in turn were pulled apart as the surgeon slipped his latex gloved hands down into the blood and gore of the warm body, holding the dying man's heart in the palms of his hands. "I'm starting the cardio-stimulation now, Dr. Cullen mark the time." Dr. Reardon slowly squeezed first right, then left, over and over again to massage the heart into starting again. It was a gruesome and difficult process but it had to be done or the young man, in his early twenties would die, literally in his hands. However Dr. Reardon had sworn an oath and would preform his duties to the best of his abilities for as long as necessary. Dr. Cullen noted the time as 3:27 p.m. 5/16/89, then he watched and waited.
     The patient, Owen David, an electrician for G.E., was now, finally, in a place of calm where he felt a deep abiding peace envelope him like a womb. The pain and horror of his last day on Earth a far removed terror from his mind. It had been a rather nice Chicago spring morning, until Owen received a call about a newly installed electrical panel, about the size of a small house, that was smoking, out at the water filtration plant by Olive Park just off Lake Michigan. Owen had gone out to see what the trouble was and he decided to shimmy his way underneath the panel on his back, for there was just enough room for him to slide underneath the smoking mass. Where he determined the painters had done a sloppy job and paint had dripped down into the electrical points. So Owen knew the best thing to do was to just let it burn off so he slid back out. Now, in doing so, he arched his back, just ever so slightly, to squeeze out of the tight crawl space. This is when his belt buckle touched to the metal contact causing him to be electrocuted with 13,800 volts of searing electricity! It took two men, three minutes, with a rope tied around his ankles, to pull Owen out from underneath the panel, which his flesh had been melting to for five minutes. The upper part of his body was as black as charcoal, a white film covering his nearly blind eyes, the frantic men who rescued him sickened by the sight of a charred, living human being, quickly drove him to the nearest Hospital, Ravenswood, with two police escorts, who rushed down the busy streets of Chicago, sirens wailing, trying there best to seek medical attention for one of their fellow citizens, whom they were all sure was doomed to die that day. And the police, and men who rescued Owen, all did a valiant job getting him to the hospital in time, Owen drifting in and out of consciousness in the void of the gulf between the living and the dead where he now found himself. He had a feeling of being lifted up into a soft white light, were he saw three clear, floating beings, almost like jellyfish, Owen thought. Then from out of the peace and comfort and light he saw another being that was dark and ominous and Owen began to feel the sting of pain return once again as the black mass rushed towards him, enveloping him in an infinite darkness.
     The patient suddenly opened his eyes and let out the most excruciatingly loud scream as his heart sparked back to life, beating in Dr .Reardon's tired hands. Fully awake and alive a terrified Owen looked down at his split open body, with the doctor's hands plunged deep into his chest. Owen could feel the man holding his heart in his hands. Now this was just too much for poor Owen to take, and the once handsome young man, now blackened and bleeding, from the endless skin graphs, leapt from the table where he fell hard to the blood stained, cold, tile floor where his head hit hard and a deep fracture in his skull let out a loud CRACK! Panic in the operating room ensued as the attending physicians and nurses tried to get the patient back up on the table but they were too late. Owen David had suffered so much, and been so close to life and death that day, it was sad that he should die this way, of a subdoral hematoma, a bleeding of the brain.
     Dr.Reardon glared over at Dr.Cullen, his anesthesiologist in the operating room, with outrage, disgust and anger he said to Dr. Cullen "Mark the time of death..," Dr.Reardon paused snapping off his surgical gloves then added "Dr. Cullen! If I were not a surgeon I would punch you in the face!" embarrassed Dr. Cullen said nothing, just noting the time of death 4:02 p.m. as the nurses looked shocked saying nothing, for they well knew Dr. Cullen's reputation as a bad anesthesiologist. This was not his first patient he had lost, and they were all beginning to feel that perhaps Dr.Cullen lacked the skill and talent to have the lives of  human beings in his hands. "Now!" Dr. Reardon said in a scolding tone to Michael "I am not looking forward to writing another report about your ineptitude. Now get cleaned up and go notify his family that their loved one is dead! Do you think you can manage that?" Dr. Reardon chided him.
      "Yes Doctor." Michael Cullen said with a sigh, knowing this would most likely be the last time he saw the inside of an operating room. He had lost his hospital privileges at Northwestern Medical, his Alma matter, and had been sent packing in disgrace from the University of Chicago Hospital. Ravenswood was his last chance. With this weighing heavily on his mind, Dr. Cullen went to the scrub room cleaning the blood of his dead patient off, dreading the task of notifying another family that 'something went wrong with the anestesia'. He was just happy his parents were no longer alive to see what a failure he had become.