Page 8 of Tropical Heat

Did I already mention I don’t do relationships? At least not the romantic kind. But part of me was still disappointed. It would have been nice to have someone as sexy as Zak help me relieve the stress at the end of a long week.

I pushed the thoughts from my mind. There were people on the other side of the door who needed my help. It was time for me to get to work. I scanned my ID, stepped through the doors, and entered the ER.

In The Keys, much of the economy is based around sportfishing. Every week, thousands of tourists flock to the area to ply its waters for everything from red snapper to blue marlins. Even experienced fishermen occasionally find themselves on the wrong end of their equipment. When this happens, most people can remove the hook themselves. But when their efforts fail, they come to the hospital for help.

In the brief time I had been at TKMC, I had already seen a number of patients with hooks stuck in a wide array of body parts. Ears, hands, and noses were the most common. Most were easily removed using either an 18-gauge needle or a loop of 2-0 silk suture line. But the man behind curtain two was not so simple.

Ernie Harmon, an 84-year-old male in good health, had been driven to the hospital by his friend Frank. According to his chart, they had been fishing when Frank accidentally hooked Mr. Harmon.

When I walked into the room, the patient was already on the exam table, laying on his stomach, and covered by a sheet. Another man, approximately the same age as the patient, was seated in the visitor's chair. I introduced myself to both of them with a smile.

It had been a slow night and I have a weak spot for the elderly. It was more than professional curiosity when I asked them what had happened. I listened closely as Mr. Harmon and Frank told me their story.

There was a lot of talking over each other and arguing about minor details. As best as I could understand it, they had been surfcasting on a sandbar off of Crowley Key. At some point, Mr. Harmon stooped to get an eel from the bait bucket, at the exact time Frank attempted to cast out his line.

“You may not realize it when you look at him, but for an old guy, Frank still has a powerful cast. I knew as soon as my feet came back down on the ground what had happened and yelled for him to stop yanking. But it was too late by then. That hook was already buried in my backside.”

“He’s right," said the other man. “No matter what I tried, I couldn’t get it out. Eventually, I got tired of his screaming, and we packed everything up and went back to the car. It was slow going because of all the rocks. After I helped him into the back seat so he could lie on his belly, I drove us here.”

From the way they described the shoreline, it would have been a dangerous area to fish, even for men half their age in broad daylight. “Aren’t there safer places you could fish from?”

“Usually we fish from the pier,” Mr. Harmon said. “But on a night like this, with a full moon and high tide coming in, we knew the big ones would be close to shore. You can’t ignore an opportunity like that.”

“They come in to feast on the smaller fish.” Ernie explained.

“Interesting,” I said. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”

“Miss, no offense, but is there another doctor around here?” Mr. Harmon asked. “Maybe a male doctor who could take care of me?”

I did not take offense. People of his generation have very specific ideas regarding gender roles. Even my grandfather tried to talk me into going to nursing school instead of med school. As he put it, ‘people don’t trust lady doctors.’ I had learned to deal with such outdated thinking.

After flashing my most charming smile, I explained. “Mr. Harmon, although I may be one of the newer physicians here, I have over a thousand hours of clinical experience and am as qualified as any male doctor we have on staff.”

“It's not that, sweetheart. I am sure you are a fine doctor. But when they brought me back here, they cut off my pants and under britches and left me with just this sheet.” He looked up at me, like his point should be obvious. “I've been married for sixty years and in all that time, Grace is the only woman who's ever seen me naked. I don't think she'd like another woman looking at my bare bum.”

“She’s real jealous,” confirmed Frank. “You don’t want to rile her up.”

“Well, I won't tell if you don't.” I winked, and that seemed to satisfy him. When I pulled back the sheet, I asked, “Um, what exactly were you fishing for?”

Only the shaft was visible, protruding from his boney left cheek. But at three and a half inches long, I could tell it was no ordinary hook. The eye was at least a quarter inch in diameter and wrapped with what I estimated to be 50-pound wire line.

“Sharks,” said Mr. Harmon. “Bull heads.”

“Remind me not to go swimming around here,” I said.

“Oh, you don't have to worry.” Frank explained. “Sharks rarely come close to shore unless conditions are just right, like they were tonight. You’ll be safe as long as you avoid the jetties and fishing docks.”

I was not convinced, but more concerned with my patient’s needs, I did not argue. “Mr. Harmon, I think it best we get an X-ray, so I can see exactly what we are dealing with here. I didn’t want to remove the hook until I was sure it had not penetrated the muscle or bone.”

“Whatever you think is best, Doc. Frank, you better call Grace and let her know I am going to be late. But what ever you say, don't tell her about the lady doctor.”

Mr. Harmon’s X-ray showed that despite a two and a half-inch gap between the point and shaft of the hook, there was no muscular or bone involvement. With a sturdy pair of forceps, I was able to push the point through his skin and cut the barb off using a pair of wire cutters borrowed from building maintenance. I removed the hook and sent him home to his wife.

By 3:00 a.m. things had slowed down, and I went to retrieve my phone so I could check if any new rentals had come on the market. On my way to the doctors’ lounge, the alert which signaled an inbound ambulance sounded. I was waiting in the bay when it pulled in.

When Clive exited the driver’s side, I unconsciously smoothed my hair. It was not until Eva Hopple stepped from the rear of the ambulance that I realized I had been expecting to see Zak. I did not have time to be disappointed. Hopple, a short and stocky woman, launched into her handoff report while they were still unloading the gurney.

“Patient is Christopher Robbins, a 27-year-old male. Vitals are normal. When we arrived on scene, Mr. Robbins had just been pulled from the water below the Seven Mile Bridge by an FWC patrol boat. Mr. Robbins stated that ‘his ankle hurt like a son of a bitch.’ Field assessment indicated he had likely fractured his ankle when he hit the water.”

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