The following is a work of fiction.
September 10th, 1994
Tom Connors swore under his breath upon seeing the bloody, torn skin on Gordon McCoy’s elbows. The injury occurred as the eighty-eight-year-old McCoy rolled from his side to his stomach repeatedly on the hard x-ray table. As a new x-ray technologist, Connors struggled to limit the patient’s discomfort while taking the final films. Through his mind flashed thoughts of compassion and self-control, but mostly of the steaming anger he felt at the radiologist who just put him in this situation. That six-foot four-inch swaggering and belligerent doctor, the terror of the department, had outdone himself this time. Upon entering the fluoroscopic radiology room, the outpatient had launched a verbal attack at Dr. Jonathan Halpern, “Why have I had to wait so long? This is ridiculous. Where have you been?” Halpern fumbled with excuses, then stormed from the room in exasperation, slamming the door behind him. Knocking on the lead-lined door’s small window, the fuming radiologist motioned for Connors to step into the control hallway. “I refuse to do this person’s upper GI study. Here’s what you’re going to do: lay him down and take drinking films of his esophagus. First a right lateral, then a right oblique, then a prone film. Then roll him on the table a few times to coat his stomach. Have him drink more, then repeat the same projections centered on his stomach. When you’re done, show me the films before you let him go. I’ll be in my office.” Though just out of x-ray school, Connors, at thirty-five, was no kid and knew he needed this job to get back on track. With a wife and their first child on the way, now was not the time to think that his two-year course in Radiologic Technology had been a mistake. What else could he do in this rusting northern city? He couldn’t go back to what he was doing before.
Connors shook the barium sulfate “milkshake” one last time before filling a cup and handing it to the elderly McCoy. The explanation he gave for Halpern’s brusque departure was that the radiologist believed that only a few images were necessary and that Connors could do them. Producing good drinking films without fluoroscopy would mean that Connors would have the feeble McCoy lie down on his side, take a large sip through a straw and hold the barium in his mouth. Connors would then run behind the control panel, call out loudly for the man to swallow, and make the exposure. Knowledge of anatomy, good centering and timing were critical. Concentrating as best he could on the task at hand, his blood pressure at its peak with his anger at Halpern, he completed the study, bandaged McCoy’s elbows and took the completed films to the radiologist for review.
Fifteen minutes later, Connors greeted the next outpatient. “Welcome to All Saints Hospital, Mrs. Blackburn. My name is Tom and I’ll be starting your upper GI series with Dr. Halpern.”
September 10th, 1994
Tom Connors swore under his breath upon seeing the bloody, torn skin on Gordon McCoy’s elbows. The injury occurred as the eighty-eight-year-old McCoy rolled from his side to his stomach repeatedly on the hard x-ray table. As a new x-ray technologist, Connors struggled to limit the patient’s discomfort while taking the final films. Through his mind flashed thoughts of compassion and self-control, but mostly of the steaming anger he felt at the radiologist who just put him in this situation. That six-foot four-inch swaggering and belligerent doctor, the terror of the department, had outdone himself this time. Upon entering the fluoroscopic radiology room, the outpatient had launched a verbal attack at Dr. Jonathan Halpern, “Why have I had to wait so long? This is ridiculous. Where have you been?” Halpern fumbled with excuses, then stormed from the room in exasperation, slamming the door behind him. Knocking on the lead-lined door’s small window, the fuming radiologist motioned for Connors to step into the control hallway. “I refuse to do this person’s upper GI study. Here’s what you’re going to do: lay him down and take drinking films of his esophagus. First a right lateral, then a right oblique, then a prone film. Then roll him on the table a few times to coat his stomach. Have him drink more, then repeat the same projections centered on his stomach. When you’re done, show me the films before you let him go. I’ll be in my office.” Though just out of x-ray school, Connors, at thirty-five, was no kid and knew he needed this job to get back on track. With a wife and their first child on the way, now was not the time to think that his two-year course in Radiologic Technology had been a mistake. What else could he do in this rusting northern city? He couldn’t go back to what he was doing before.
Connors shook the barium sulfate “milkshake” one last time before filling a cup and handing it to the elderly McCoy. The explanation he gave for Halpern’s brusque departure was that the radiologist believed that only a few images were necessary and that Connors could do them. Producing good drinking films without fluoroscopy would mean that Connors would have the feeble McCoy lie down on his side, take a large sip through a straw and hold the barium in his mouth. Connors would then run behind the control panel, call out loudly for the man to swallow, and make the exposure. Knowledge of anatomy, good centering and timing were critical. Concentrating as best he could on the task at hand, his blood pressure at its peak with his anger at Halpern, he completed the study, bandaged McCoy’s elbows and took the completed films to the radiologist for review.
Fifteen minutes later, Connors greeted the next outpatient. “Welcome to All Saints Hospital, Mrs. Blackburn. My name is Tom and I’ll be starting your upper GI series with Dr. Halpern.”
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