She woke to find herself in a hospital room.
This isn’t realistic. I must be dreaming; I mean, I was in my room writing down my cousins’ birthdays, she thought.
She tries to grasp the memory, but it floated out of her reach. She sat up and looked around. The door opened and she looked at the man who entered.
“Hello, how are you feeling today?” he asked. She glared at him skeptically.
“How did I get here?”
“You had an accident. I’d rather spare you the details.”
“I want to hear them; I don’t care how gory they are. I want them. And how did I have an accident? Last I remember, I was…” She paused, she couldn’t remember the last detail clearly.
“You must’ve hit your head hard during the accident. I’ll be sure to notify the head doctor.” She started to put her head in her hands but stopped when she noticed a number on her arm. She licked her finger and rubbed at it. It didn’t go away or smear at all; it was a tattoo. She looked up when the doctor started to talk again.
“So I’ll ask you again, how are you feeling. How about on a scale of one to ten - ten being the most amount of pain - how much pain are you feeling?” She glanced at the tattoo again.
“What does 404 mean? It wasn’t there before.”
“It’s you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You’re Patient 404.”
“Why not just call me by my name, and why tattoo it on my arm? What’s wrong around here?”
“That is your name. Your name is Patient 404.”
“What are you talking about? My name is…”
“But you can’t remember.” He smiled. “Have a nice day, Patient
Smith waiting frantically, “Gosh Isiah you scared me, you’re lucky I covered for you guys”
Causes of dispensing errors can be traced by root-cause analysis or by inquiring with practicing pharmacists by means of a survey. Root-cause analysis comes closer to reality, because a survey measures on the perceptions and opinions of pharmacists. An example of the former type was a study in a UK hospital in which the researchers used semi structured interviews of pharmacy staff about self-reported dispensing errors (Anacleto, T.A., Perini, Rosa, Cesar, 2007)
She wondered when the hell T.C., fellow ER doctor and ex-boyfriend, would actually show up. He did the same thing every night – he tore into the hospital at the last second like his ass was on fire, looking like he’d just rolled out of bed. Or crawled out of a gutter. Jordan hoped tonight he would not show up reeking of perfume, which he had last night. That had been a stark reminder that
I ran to Ms. Gallagher’s room as fast as I could. “I’m going to take you down to radiology so you can get a brain scan,” I informed her. “Why, what’s wrong with me?” she asked. “I’m not sure yet.”
“Good. Down with the dignitary,” Crisofer pulled his shirt up enough that they could see the edge of his tattoo on his right arm.
“Holy Shit. It wasn’t a dream.” The words came out as a whisper, even though they screamed through her head.
“But I don’t understand,” I said after a moment, blood pounding in my ears. “You want to help me right?”
“And Mr. Selkie what would that be, what could be possibly worth a trip to the hospital and had me worried out of my head for you?” she said.
"What the hell was that? Are you crazy or just stupid?" He made note of her hands; knuckles smattered with rust-color blood stains he could only pray wasn't hers.
“My father killed my mother,” he says eventually. It’s horribly casual, the way the words tumble out of his mouth, but he can’t think of any other way to say them.
“Hello, I am the doctor,” he said to the tattoo artist with a bright smile, “who might you be?”
“It’s alright, at least you’re okay. Now, what was it that you wanted to show me?” I asked as my sister reached into her pocket.
“O-Ok,” he stuttered. Although he felt quite weak in that moment, he managed to place his bags above his head, blushing when he felt his shirt fly up as he lifted his arms, exposing the bottom of his smooth tattooed stomach. He had always loved getting tattoos because no one truly knew what they meant but him. They all had a special meaning that no one could take away from him. Finally, he lowered his arms when his bags were settled nicely, and he quickly pulled down his shirt.
“Oh, it is terrible. Terrible. I have lots of visible tattoos on my neck and on my hands. I get looked down upon quite extensively in everyday life. I got followed while I was shopping in the grocery store tonight. The security guard must have thought that I was going to shoplift something (Katherine 37).”
He shrugged the best he could strapped down, “Not telling me anything I don’t already know Doc. But that’s the cards this world dealt me. I’ve played them the best I could, all things considering.”