Ethan needed emergency surgery immediately. Dr. Whitmore had arrived by then, a tall woman in her 50s with steel gray hair, and an expression of barely controlled fury. She reviewed the CT images, then turned to where Vance was standing near the nurse’s station, trying to look busy. Dr. Vance, my office now. She looked at me. Dr. Mills, we’re taking your son to surgery immediately. Dr. Kowalsski will be the attending surgeon, and I’m bringing in Dr. Lisa Chen. She caught herself.
Dr. Lisa Warren, one of our best general surgeons to assist. Your son is going to be fine, but this should never have happened. They wheeled Ethan to surgery at 8:15 a.m., nearly 7 hours after his symptoms had started. I walked alongside the gurnie, holding his hand. “Dad, I’m scared,” he said quietly. “I know, but you’re in good hands. Dr. Kowalsski is excellent, and they’re going to fix this. You’re going to be fine.” He squeezed my hand. I wasn’t making it up.
I wasn’t faking for drugs. My throat tightened. I know you weren’t. This is not your fault. None of this is your fault. They took him through the surgical suite doors and I was left standing in the hallway watching through the small windows as they prepped him for surgery. My hands were shaking. My son had nearly died because a doctor had let his prejudices override his medical training. I pulled out my phone and started making calls. First to my ex-wife, Ethan’s mother, who deserved to know what was happening.
She answered immediately, her voice thick with sleep. Garrison, what’s wrong? I explained everything. The ER visit, Vance’s dismissal, the delayed diagnosis, the emergency surgery. By the time I finished, she was crying. He could have died if you hadn’t gone there. If he’d listened to that doctor and gone home, he could have died. I know. My voice was rough. But he didn’t. He’s in surgery now, and he’s going to be okay. I’m getting on the next flight, she said.
I’ll be there in 6 hours. After we hung up, I called my attorney, Jeffrey Hartman, who specialized in medical malpractice cases. I’d known Jeffrey for 15 years and had served as an expert witness on several of his cases. He answered with the professional alertness of someone used to emergency calls. Garrison, what’s happened? I laid out the timeline, the symptoms, the lack of diagnostic workup, the delayed treatment, the ruptured appendix. Jeffrey listened without interrupting, and I could hear him typing notes.
This is clear-cut negligence, he said when I finished. Failure to diagnose, inadequate assessment, delay in treatment resulting in serious harm. The fact that the patient was profiled based on appearance adds another dimension. We can file a formal complaint with the state medical board. And depending on the outcome of your son’s surgery and recovery, there may be grounds for a civil suit. I want more than a complaint, I said. I want Vance’s license reviewed. I want a full investigation into his practice patterns.
And I want to make sure this never happens to another patient. Jeffree was quiet for a moment. You’re asking for a war, Garrison. The hospital will protect him. The medical board moves slowly. This could take years. I don’t care how long it takes. My son nearly died because a doctor was too lazy and prejudiced to do his job. That’s unacceptable. Then we’ll do it, Jeffrey said. But we need documentation, everything. Medical records, witness statements, timeline of events.
