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!
"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!
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