Page 105 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

He looked at me carefully. “What do you mean?”

“That’s not my blood.”

He pointed to my name and date of birth at the top of the page.

“I understand,” I said. “But I know what my test results should look like. These are wrong.”

I’m sure I sounded arrogant as hell. Most docs would bristle. Brubaker laughed. “Okay, what’s wrong with them?”

“For starters, my white blood cell count is way too high.”

“It’s not high at all,” he said. “Six thousand is perfectly normal.”

“I know. But I’m not normal. My last white blood cell count was twenty-two hundred. I’ve been diagnosed with HLH.”

“HLH,” he repeated.

“It’s a rare blood disease,” I said. “I realize that emergency room docs don’t see many?—”

“I’m not an ER doctor, Maggie. I’m a hematologist, and I’ve seen my share of patients with hemophagocytic lymphohistiocytosis.”

“You’re a... I don’t understand. Since when does a hematologist cover the ER?”

“You told the intake doctor you had HLH. They had me check your test results, and I’m here to tell you that you absolutely do not.”

“How is that possible? My doctor confirmed the diagnosis. He?—”

“Is he a hematologist?”

“No, but my mother died from HLH, and he’s been monitoring me and my sister for years.”

“The only thing I can suggest is that he found what he was looking for, even though it wasn’t there. I’ve been a board-certified hematologist for seventeen years, and I can assure you that you don’t have HLH.”

I snapped. “Make up your mind! Two minutes ago, you told me I was dying.”

“You are.”

“From what!?”

“Vitamin D poisoning.”

I tried to speak, but I couldn’t.

“A normal healthy level of vitamin D for a woman your age is forty nanograms per milliliter. Over a hundred is toxic. Look at yours,” he said, pointing at a number on my chart. “Four hundred and thirty-nine. That’s lethal, Maggie. I don’t know who prescribed such massive doses to you, but if it’s the same doctor who misdiagnosed you with HLH, I’m going to call?—”

“No, no, no, please. It wasn’t my doctor. It was me.”

“You?” he said.

I could almost feel the change in his demeanor as his antennae went up.

“Maggie, are you thinking of hurting yourself?”

“Oh, no, no—nothing like that. I have a wonderful husband, two amazing kids, and a dream job. I’ve never been happier.”

“Your blood work suggests otherwise. I’d like you to have a talk with one of our social workers.”

Brubaker was now in full-throttle suicide-prevention mode. If he thought I was a danger to myself, he had a legal obligation to keep me there. I needed an out.