Chapter 3 - THE CORRECTED PATHOLOGY
The hospital's main line connected Daniel to an after-hours clinical coordinator.
She could not discuss full pathology interpretation over the phone without verification.
Daniel gave everything she asked for.
Date of birth.
Address.
Medical record number from Emma's paperwork.
Then:
“I need to know whether my cancer diagnosis was reversed in March.”
The coordinator went quiet.
“I can see an amended pathology entry.”
Linda closed her eyes.
Daniel watched her.
“When?”
“March eleventh.”
“Was I notified?”
“I need to review the communication log.”
Keyboard.
Long enough that Daniel could hear the refrigerator running behind them.
Finally:
“There is a call documented to your listed healthcare representative.”
“My wife.”
“Yes.”
“Any call to me?”
“I see two attempted calls to your mobile number.”
Daniel frowned.
“My phone never rang.”
“One went to voicemail.”
“I didn't get it.”
“There is a note that the mailbox was full.”
Daniel remembered.
After surgery, he had stopped answering almost everyone.
He could not stand hearing sympathy in people's voices.
The coordinator continued.
“A secure portal message was also sent.”
“I never saw it.”
Another pause.
“It shows delivery failure.”
“Why?”
“The email address in the old portal profile appears incomplete.”
Daniel rubbed his forehead.
His old Gmail account had a period in the username.
The hospital system had once lost it.
He remembered complaining.
“Anything else?”
“A certified letter.”
Linda's face changed.
Daniel saw it.
“Where was it sent?”
The coordinator read the address.
Their house.
Daniel looked at Linda.
“Did a certified letter come?”
She did not answer.
The coordinator said:
“Mr. Harper?”
“Yes.”
“The communication log also says your wife agreed to discuss the corrected result with you because you were recovering from surgery.”
Daniel looked directly at Linda.
“Exact words.”
The coordinator hesitated.
“I don't want to misstate another employee's documentation.”
“Read it.”
After another pause:
Spouse states patient is highly anxious and sleeping. She will inform him tonight. Requests physician call tomorrow if patient has questions.
Emma shut her eyes.
Daniel stared at Linda.
“Tonight.”
Linda was crying now.
He did not care yet.
The coordinator said:
“I can arrange for patient relations and hematology to contact you tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“I also strongly recommend you continue prescribed medications until speaking with the prescribing clinician.”
Daniel looked at the amber bottle.
“So the metoprolol wasn't for lymphoma.”
“No. Metoprolol is typically used for cardiovascular indications. I can't advise on your specific use without the chart—”
“I understand.”
He ended the call.
Linda reached for him.
He stepped away.
“Where's the letter?”
“What?”
“The certified letter.”
“I don't know.”
Daniel stared.
Emma spoke from the wall.
“Mom.”
Linda's breathing became shallow.
“I put it somewhere.”
“Where?”
“I don't remember.”
“You remember hiding eight months of pathology but not a letter?”
“I didn't hide it for eight months on purpose.”
Daniel laughed again.
“What does that sentence mean?”
Linda sat down.
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?”
“That night.”
“You didn't.”
“No.”
“The next morning?”
“No.”
“The day after?”
“No.”
Emma whispered:
“Why?”
Linda looked at Daniel.
Then at the ruined dining room.
“There was another letter that day.”
Daniel went still.
“What letter?”
Linda covered her face.
“The bank.”
Daniel felt the floor shift beneath a different part of his life.
Not medicine.
Money.
“The bank about what?”
Linda lowered her hands.
“Your line of credit.”
Daniel's jaw tightened.
Emma looked between them.
“What line of credit?”
Linda answered without taking her eyes off Daniel.
“The one your father told me was forty thousand dollars.”
Emma looked at him.
Daniel said nothing.
Linda continued.
May you like
“It was ninety-three.”
Now it was Daniel who went pale.
