Betrayal in White Coats

"Dr. Holden, there's trouble!" The nurse rushed in, panic in her voice as she shouted, "The deceased's family has placed the coffin on the doctor's desk!"

The deceased?

Coffin?

I shot up from my chair, but the weight of the words pulled me back down. My chest tightened, as if someone had reached in and squeezed my heart with merciless force.

Kathryn Lane was gone. Severe heart disease, compounded by pregnancy-related hypertension and clotting issues, had claimed her life.

I had warned her repeatedly-with her condition, pregnancy was a dangerous gamble. And when she showed signs of miscarriage in the early weeks, I begged her to terminate the pregnancy for her own safety.

But Kathryn was determined to keep the baby.

She held on through the first trimester and then wanted to enroll in the hospital's prenatal program. But no hospital was willing to take her.

Because the program meant a commitment. Any complications along the way, right up to delivery, would be the hospital's responsibility. Kathryn's case was a walking lawsuit waiting to happen. What hospital would willingly take on that kind of risk?

She eventually came to me, desperate. But I couldn't do it either.

I urged her to go to Rivergate's top-tier hospital. "Dr. Holden, you came from a hospital like that. I trust you more than anyone," she pleaded.

Her husband, however, had other concerns. "We can't afford Rivergate," he said flatly.

I tried reasoning with them, explaining that while I had the skills, our hospital lacked the advanced equipment and specialized teams of a place like Rivergate. When it came to emergencies, that difference could be life or death.

Yes, big hospitals cost more, but they could save lives.

Fearing that Kathryn might not take it seriously, I grasped her hand and pleaded earnestly, "There's nothing in this world more precious than your own life."

Kathryn hesitated, but her husband's face hardened. He yanked her toward the door, muttering bitterly, "They just don't want to take us because we're poor and didn't grease their palms with a bribe."

No, that was not it at all.

I rushed after them, desperate to make them understand.

But Robert Lane, Kathryn's husband, stopped in the hallway and unleashed a tirade, accusing that I lacked empathy and professionalism, and that I didn't deserve the title of Director.

He even shouted that he was going to report me to the hospital president, accusing me of being incompetent and of sending them elsewhere, causing them to waste their money.

Anger flared up inside me. I had only been trying to help, yet here I was, being painted as the villain. With a sharp turn, I left them behind and returned to my desk, determined to wash my hands of the situation.

But I couldn't let it go. After my third patient, I gave in to the nagging worry and asked the nurse to call Kathryn.

"Tell her this again," I instructed. "If she values her life, she needs to go to Rivergate."

Later, the nurse told me Kathryn had apologized over the phone.

Apologized? For what?

I didn't need an apology. I needed her to be safe.

For a while, I thought the matter was settled. But then, four months later, trouble came knocking again.

It was mid-November, the season's first snow covering the ground.

I was at my usual spot in the consultation room, flipping through charts and seeing patients.

Suddenly, the hospital administrator entered, escorting a heavily pregnant woman wearing a fuzzy white hat.

He pointed to the woman and said that she was a distant relative, and I had to make sure to offer the best care possible, no matter what.

I looked up and was shocked to see that it was Kathryn.

Not only had she refused to go to Rivergate, but she had carried the pregnancy to seven months, relying on medication to sustain it.

Her face glowed with happiness as she cradled her belly, but the sight sent an icy chill through me. Something wasn't right.

Her pallor screamed trouble. Her heart had to be under immense strain.

At seven months pregnant, Kathryn had severe heart disease. By now, her blood pressure was likely off the charts.

I motioned for her to sit, but my unease wouldn't subside. Setting aside the patient I had been consulting, I pulled the administrator into a private room. "Sir, I can't handle this case. She's beyond my expertise," I said. "This is way too risky."