It was the summer of 2008. I was driving to work one day, and my mobile phone rang. I answered it on my hands-free, thinking it was because I was running a little late for the ward round, and the nurses were being impatient. However, the sharp retort froze on my tongue when the caller introduced himself.
‘Hi Doc, it’s Bruce, I am the head of security at the hospital.’
Oh crap. They found out it was me who has been parking in the Director of Surgery’s spot on weekend call.
‘Could you give me call on this number when you arrive at the car park?’
Great, now they are going to make sure I don’t use anyone else’s reserved spots.
‘We need to escort you to and from the car park from now on. We have had to take out a restraining order against a patient of yours, and we have been assigned to ensure your safety.’
During my final rotation as the senior registrar in plastic surgery, I was often entrusted with difficult cases, or difficult patients. My boss at the time was the HOD (head of department). He was referred a patient from the cardiac surgery unit. It was an elderly 70-yar-old lady who had bypass surgery which unfortunately went pear shaped. She ended up in intensive care for a month with complication after complication. One of the consequences of her general comorbidities was break-down of her lower leg wound from where they harvested her veins for the bypass grafts. There was no sign of healing due to her poor general health.
When I saw her wound, I told the HOD that there was no way a skin graft would take. It was slimy with a biofilm of bacterial colonisation. The bed of the wound was completely white and scarred with no healing granulation tissue. It would be like laying turf on concrete. The HOD told me to take her to theatre and just lay a graft on it. He could tell that I didn’t agree by the silence that ensued.
‘I know the graft won’t take, Tiff, but we need to graft her. Her son is being difficult and demanding.’ At my raised eyebrow, he sighed. ‘I know, I know, it’s the wrong reason to operate, but he is making life hell for the cardiac team.’
I shrugged, documented his decision in the chart, spoke to the patient and booked her for theatre. 10 days after her surgery, the graft became sloughy, and the wound went yellow. Surprise, surprise, I thought, but I spoke to patient, explained why the graft didn’t take and she agreed that it was a long shot, but was very grateful I tried. We both agreed that more dressings were required. I didn’t give it any further thought.
Couple of days after that, I was caught up in an 8-hour case in the operating theatre, during which my pager kept going off. When I un-scrubbed from surgery, I noted that they were outside calls. I rang the switchboard, and they told me that there was a man who was very insistent on talking to me. I asked them if they knew who he was, they said he wouldn’t say. It was well past 7pm, so there was not much I could do, so I put it to the back of my mind and headed home. Then, my mobile phone rang whilst I was driving home that night, I thought about not answering it as I was about to enter the under-river tunnel, where I would lose mobile phone signal. However, the number showed that it was the hospital, so I picked it up.
‘Hi Doctor, I have one of your friends on the line looking for you.’
I rolled my eyes, must be one of my colleagues who wanted me to pick them up for work tomorrow. ‘Sure, put them through.’
‘Are you Doctor Tiffany?’
Something in his voice got my attention. It was not a voice I recognised. ‘Yes, it’s me. Who am I speaking to?’
‘You did an operation on my mother couple of weeks ago, and it was a complete failure. Now she has an infection in her leg, what did you do to her?’ He was yelling down the phone.
Initially, I was too shocked to reply. I remember vividly listening to the agitated heavy breathing that reverberated over the phone during the silence.
‘I am sorry, I am not sure who you are referring to, could you tell me who you are and your mother’s name please?’
Unfortunately that just earned me another blasting. ‘How can you not remember who you’ve operated on? What kind of doctor are you? My mother is…… you….. not good…… bad….find you…..’
There was no point. I was now in the tunnel and the signal was cutting in and out, which eventually cut off completely. I sighed. That was probably going to make matters worse now because he would probably think I had hung up on him.
When I exited the tunnel, I rang the hospital and spoke to the switchboard lady that connected me before. I asked her who he was, and whether there was any way I could get in contact with him, the switchboard lady sounded surprised and said, ‘but doctor, he said he was one of your really good friends and wanted to be put through to your mobile immediately because he was running late for a dinner you were both going to.’ I had to tell her that it wasn’t a friend but a patient’s relative. She apologised profusely. I had to point out to her the fact that if he really was my friend whom I was meeting for dinner, he would have had my number without having to go through her.
There was nothing I could do, and he never rung back.
It was two days after that, when I got the phone call from security. So I dutifully called them when I arrived at the car park. Within seconds, as if they were already waiting for me there, two men in uniform materialised around my car and walked me to ward. They reminded me to call security when I leave for the day.
When I arrived on the ward, sudden silence ensued. My residents looked at me with fear, and the nurses were whispering. I was just about to ask them what was going on when the HOD came out of his office. A look of relief passed his face when he saw me.
‘Tiff,’ he smile. Now, that was something rare, my HOD did not have ‘smiling’ as one of his usual repertoire of facial expressions. The look on my face must have been one of complete confusion, because he took my arm and literally dragged me along with him. At 5’3 to his 6’2, I had to run to keep up with him. ‘We are going down to see the Head of Security.’
So, at 7.30am, I found myself sitting in a small room in the hospital basement, opposite a large bald man in security uniform. He was leaning on his desk which appeared tiny under his bulging biceps. Loose paper littered the surface of the desk, some of which overspilled onto the floor around his chair.
Bruce the Biceps nodded at my HOD as if to ask him to start. I turned and looked at him. He cleared his throat and uncrossed his legs. ‘You remember Mrs Y?’ I nodded, he was referring to the lady from Cardiac Surgery whom I grafted nearly two weeks ago. ‘You remember how I told you his son was being difficult?’ I frowned, because I only very vaguely remembered anything other than clinical stuff from our conversation. ‘Well, apparently, he was told by his mother that the graft didn’t take, and then the nursing staff got her mixed up with another patient, and told him that the leg was badly infected.’ He paused. ‘Apparently he created a scene on the ward couple of days ago, and demanded to see the surgeon. The nurses told him that it was not possible as the surgeon was operating. During lunch break, he snuck behind the nursing station and was caught reading her chart by one of the nursing staff. He got your name from the operating notes. ‘
Mr Biceps nodded ‘he then pestered the switchboard all day to be put through to you, but they said that they could only page you. None of those pages were answered.’
I sat up, ‘But I was….’
‘Operating, I know.’ Mr Biceps reached over the table and patted my shoulder, ‘Switchboard also told me that he managed to get through to you on mobile phone late that night?’
I nodded and told him my story. He grimaced. ‘I really should re-do that protocol on phone safety.’
‘Anyway,’ my HOD said, obviously uncomfortable with the whole situation, ‘Apparently yesterday, he turned up on the ward again, demanding to see you. The nurses told him that you weren’t in the hospital for the day, he left the ward.’ He threw his hands in the air in frustration, as we both knew I was at work yesterday, ‘I don’t know, maybe they were trying to get rid of him. He then rung switchboard and asked which hospital you were working at. Switchboard was reading off the old roster and told him that you were at St M’s.’
‘But that was my last rotation,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ Mr Biceps nodded, ‘but he was just following the information he was given, so he drove over to St M’s, went to their front desk and demanded to know where you were. Their receptionist told him that you didn’t work there anymore and has been transferred here.’
‘Geez,’ I rolled my eyes, ‘the guy must have thought he was given the run around. The phone calls, then the hospitals…..’ I grimaced, ‘if he wasn’t pissed off before all this, he would have been livid by now.’
‘Uh, huh.’ Mr Biceps agreed, ‘and that’s when he lost his sh…. marbles. He accused everyone of trying to protect you, and that you were hiding from him because you were guilty of trying to kill his mother. He then threatened to shoot you.’
That got my attention. ‘He what?!?’
‘That’s when the front desk at St M’s called security,’ he heaved a sigh, ‘They should have held him, instead, the num nuts over at St M’s told him to leave and not come back. They didn’t even get his name. Then they called me.’ Mr Biceps shook his head. ‘It took me a whole day to work out who he was; I had to make phone calls to the ward, to switchboard and to your boss here.’
He looked at me sternly, ‘I don’t take death threats to our staff here lightly, so I called the police.’
‘So they have arrested him?’
‘Hush,’ my HOD patted my arm, ‘listen to him, there’s more.’
‘The police looked him up on their system, and realised that he had a gun licence.’ He and I both knew that gun licenses were hard to get in Australia, but it didn’t necessarily mean the person owned any firearms. He took a deep breath, ‘and he had half a dozen firearms registered under his licence.’
- Now not only did I have a loony after me, but a loony with guns.
‘But the law states that if anyone with a licence or firearms threatens anyone with witnesses, they can confiscate his licence and firearms,’ I said. My boss looked at me in surprise, he didn’t realise I taught Gun Safety courses.
He nodded. ‘Yes, so the police went to his house, cancelled his gun licence and confiscated his firearms,’ he paused, ‘but they also found a few extra unregistered firearms in the same cabinet.’ He then looked at me with a concerned expression, ‘Because they didn’t have a search warrant, they couldn’t look for any others.’
‘Wow, this is getting better and better,’ I said. My boss winced at my sacarsm.
‘They arrested him, but couldn’t hold him. They could only slap him with a fine for the unregistered firearms.’ Mr Biceps scratched his bald head in frustration. ‘So I asked them what they were going to do about your safety, since he may have other firearms which we don’t know about. They have applied for a search warrant and we have applied for a restraining order against him. I was told both of these should come through today.’
‘So,’ my HOD said, ‘he will not be allowed within 200m of the hospital. I don’t want you to go anywhere near that ward she’s on, I will assign another registrar to look after those patients.’
‘And you must be accompanied to and from the car park every day,’ Mr Biceps added. ‘We can’t afford to have any safety issues here at the hospital.’
‘That’s all great,’ I said, ‘but what happens when I am not at work?’
They looked at each other blankly.
My HOD recovered first, ‘he won’t be allowed within 200m of you either.’
Which was all sweet, but I wondered how either of us would know if we were within 200m of each other, since we had never met, and had no idea what the other looked like.
Lucky for me I never found out, because four days later, he was caught sneaking into the ward to see his mother and punched a staff member when he was being forcibly removed. They found a shotgun in his utility truck parked in the hospital car-park. He was arrested and kept in custody without bail. His mother was then discharged from hospital a week after that.
And I thought the highest rate of homicides for plastic surgeons are male patients unhappy with their nose-jobs. Funny how they have stats on that.
To Read about Stalker #1, click here.