Stalker #2

stalker 2

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.’

WTF?!?!

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.’

‘Hello?’

‘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.’

  1. 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.

Stalker #1

stalker 5

When I was a young resident working in the Emergency Department, a young Japanese sushi chef was brought in by his friend because he had sliced his fingertip off. Ok, everyone please refrain from making jokes about fingertip sashimi….. ‘Hmm hmm, but I would imagine it would be quite tough, especially with the nail’. Stop. It. Right. There.

I digress. I was assigned by my senior registrar to ‘patch’ him up, during which, I tried to make polite conversation to take his mind off the pain I was inflicting. He told me about himself and how he had only arrived in Australia 12 months ago. He told me about his restaurant, which I realised was the new one that I drove past everyday on the way to work. He asked me whether I cooked or if I preferred to have someone cooking for me. It didn’t take long for me to realise that Mr Sushi Chef was trying to chat me up. He asked me if I liked Japanese food, and I said I did. His friend (or ‘wingman’) beside him then said that my patient was ‘a very good sushi chef’. I nearly rolled my eyes, and refrained from commenting the obvious: he was so good at it that he sliced his fingertip off. I caught evil smirks on my nurse’s face as she turned away to get some equipment, which left me no doubt of the fact that this story would be doing the rounds as soon as we have finished in the procedure room.

After I have dressed his finger, given him instructions and antibiotics, I said my goodbyes (whilst trying to push him out the door) amidst his effusive gratitude. He then invited me to his restaurant for free sushi. I politely declined, but he insisted, so I just made some very non-committal noises to get him off my back. Mistake Number One.

The whole incident was forgotten a few days later, after everyone have had their turn at making a joke on my behalf about being hit on by a Sushi Chef who sliced his fingertip off with bits of raw fish. Yes, yes, I have heard it all, in all variations.

Until a week later, when a platter of sushi was delivered to our emergency department with a thank-you card, one that not only had my name on it, but the name and address of his restaurant, with his personal mobile number. Despite another round of jokes at the expense of Mr Sushi Chef’s sharp knife skills, (‘hey, Tiff, is that some finger pulp I see in your sushi.’), the platter was devoured within 20 minutes by everyone in the department. I had to admit that the sushi wasn’t bad at all.

When I left my shift that day at 10pm, I headed out the staff exit next to the ambulance bay. As I closed the door behind me, I saw a shadow from the corner of my eye.

‘Dr Tiffany, I have been waiting for you.’

I spun around and nearly got the fright of my life. It was Mr Sushi Chef. I frowned at him; the exit was a restricted staff area. Unease flooded me. I took out my badge, in case I needed to make a quick entry back into the department. He asked me if I enjoyed the Sushi he sent in the afternoon and that whether I had his number. I politely thanked him for the platter and told him that it was unnecessary. I decided against telling him that I wasn’t interested considering I was alone in a dark alley with him. I wasn’t too sure what he would do if I turned him down. I tried to make polite conversation with him, during which I found out that one of the receptionists had given him my finish time and my usual routine. He asked me if I wanted to go out for a drink, but I told him that I was tired and had to do an early shift the next day. He asked me to come into his restaurant tomorrow after my shift, and refused to leave until I agreed. So I did, and breathed a sigh of relief when he left. I quickly headed towards my car in the public car park and drove home. Mistake Number Two.

The next day at work, I rang the restaurant and breathed a sigh of relief when one of the waitresses picked up. I left a quick message to say I would be caught up at work and cancelled the dinner. I then went to see my supervisor and told him about the incident. It wasn’t my intention to get the receptionist into trouble, but I was concerned that next time, it wouldn’t be something as harmless as a persistent admirer.

Or so I thought. Flowers started to arrive. By now, the department was in an uproar of jokes. It did not matter that I was known to be in a long term relationship with a fellow colleague already (my current husband), everyone thought it was very sweet. By the end of the week, I had to write a note to him, thanking him for his gestures, explaining that it was unethical for me date a patient (I didn’t point out the fact that it was ok if the doctor-patient relationship was already finished), and that I was already in a relationship. I told him that he was very sweet, and some girl would be very lucky one day. Blah, blah, blah. I tried to make it as gentle as possible (if any rejection letter can be considered as such), and then I sent it to his restaurant. Mistake Number Three.

The flowers stopped.

One early evening, two weeks later, I found him waiting for me by my car in the car park. The first thought that hit me was how long he must have spent walking around the eight –storey car park to find my car. Secondly, how the hell did he know which car was mine?! In between those inane thoughts, I considered turning around and running back to the hospital, but at the same time, I realised he had already seen me. He was much taller than me, and It would have been no contest for him to outrun me in my kitten heels (I was on my way to meeting some friends for dinner). I slowly approached my car, but stood a few metres away from him.

He told me that he just wanted to speak to me, because I had broken his heart. I said that I was already in a relationship. He then said that I couldn’t possibly be happy in my relationship, otherwise I would have turned him down the first time and that he wanted me to be the lucky girl I mentioned in my ‘love letter’. He said that he waited for weeks by his phone for me to call after he had received the letter. The letter was a sign that we were star-crossed lovers like Romeo and Juliet. He was approaching me slowly as he spoke. It was at this point, I realised that I was dealing with a slightly deranged individual.

I had slowly manoeuvred myself to the car door, so I told him that I really wasn’t interested. He stayed still, but smiled at me knowingly as he watched me getting in the car. He said loudly just before I closed the car door that he already knew where I lived because he followed me home that first night. I told him that his persistence will not change my mind and he could follow me all he liked, because I was heading out for dinner with friends. When I arrived at the local pub, I was shaking so hard, I had to sit in the car for 20 minutes before I could join my friends.

The next day, some dead roses arrived for me, and a card declaring that I broke his heart again last night. This time, there were no jokes being bantered around. I had another meeting with my supervisor. I was to car-pool with a male colleague to and from work. There was no shortage of volunteers, as everyone knew my partner was seconded to the Emergency Department at Port Hedland Hospital over 1600 km away and I was living alone for 3 months. Many nurses offered for me to stay with them for a few weeks. Our emergency department trained the medics for SAS (Australian Special forces), so often, one of them would either offer me a lift home or to walk me and a colleague to the car.

One night, one of the SAS medics, Theo, drove me home. He had been assigned to me for 8 weeks and I had just spent the week making him efficient in stitching up wounds and putting in IV lines.  In return, he had driven me home for the last three evenings in a row. He lived at the barracks one suburb away from mine. When we arrived at my place, he pointed out that there was a brown Holden Gemini across the road which had been there the night before. I knew it wasn’t any of the neighbour’s and told him so. To my surprise, he got out of the car and walked to the brown Gemini. I called him back, but he just waved me off and told me to stay put. Yep, ‘stay put’ like I was one of his little soldiers.

He tapped on the window. While I watched him, bending over and speaking to someone through the window, all sorts of horrible images went through my mind. I could hardly hear anything as neither voice was raised. I clutched my phone and thought, what if he got stabbed, or worse, shot? I started to get out of the car, hoping to physically pull that 220-pound pure muscle mass away from danger. However, as I shut the car door, I saw that he had already turned away the Gemini and was walking back towards me.

‘Was it him?’ I asked. Theo nodded and signalled for me to stay quiet. He took the house keys from my restless hands and pushed me towards my unit. I imagined Mr Sushi Chef’s beady eyes looking at us, and almost felt my back glow with heat.

Theo shepherded me into the house, and quickly went around the lounge to switch all the lights on. He then opened the blinds at the front window and stood in full view of the street. I imagined he would have made an impressive shadow in my window frame. Whilst looking out at the car across the road, he took out his mobile phone, dialled a number and put it to his ear. A second later, I heard the brown Gemini splutter as its engine ignited. It headed off with a squeal down the road.

When the car disappeared from sight, he put his phone back into his pocket and lowered the blinds. ‘He won’t bother you anymore,’ he said, ‘but you can come over and have dinner with us. Stay the night if you are worried.’ At the word dinner, his eyes took on a glassy appearance, ‘I think Mandy is making curry tonight.’ Thoughtful silence followed. ‘The baby will probably keep you awake all night though.’ He winced at his own words.

I politely turned down his offer. Despite knowing his wife was an excellent cook (as evidenced by the incredible lunch boxes he brought to work everyday), crying babies was definitely not an additional enticement to his offer.

‘What did you say to him?’ I asked curiously.

He shrugged. ‘I told him I was a security guard and that if I saw either him or his car anywhere near you again, I will call the cops. I told him I knew his number plate, his phone number and his restaurant, which I will give to the cops. After which, he might get fined, or go to jail and he would lose his restaurant.’ He helped himself to a glass of water from the tap and sat down on my lounge.

I followed suit, glad he wasn’t leaving yet, and laughed at him, ‘That’s not true and you know it. The cops would have just ignored us.’

‘He doesn’t know that, he has only been in Australia for 12 months,‘ Theo winked. ‘Anyway, all the chefs are the same,’ he would know because his brother-in-law was a chef. ‘The restaurant means more to them than anything else in the world, they wouldn’t do anything to put it in jeopardy. And my guess is that he’s not even a permanent resident, so he can’t afford to get in trouble with the police.’

Theo was right. Despite the fact that we car-pooled together for another month, Mr Sushi Chef was never to be seen or heard from again.