“No, it’s okay. Sandira couldn’t help having emergency surgery.” Sandira, the nurse whose shifts I’m covering, ended up having an emergency appendectomy earlier in the week. Since most of the staff are married and have kids, it’s not as easy for them to pick up the slack as it is for me. “I don’t mind, I’ll just put all the extra money on my paycheck into my savings account.”
“Pssh, you’ve probably got enough in there already to buy a brand-new house.”
I snicker but don’t reply because she’s right. I’ve got a hefty nest egg saved, plus a money market account, since my expenses are minimal. I bought my house while I was still enlisted, after my mom found out it had come up on the market, then because I got wartime pay and hazardous duty pay, I was able to pay off the mortgage long before I got injured. Then, once I was home, I stayed at the rehab facility during the times I had surgery, or with my parents, so I was able to do all the renovations I wanted, which weren’t all that many. Mostly cosmetic items, like paint, although I did add bidets to all the bathrooms. It was something I got used to when I was overseas, and I had the money to add them, so I figured why not?
“Well, hopefully, I’ll be off for the state finals, because I don’t want to miss it,” I admit.
“Girl, if you’re scheduled and I’m not, I’ll switch shifts with you,” she replies. “No way you’re gonna miss that one if I can help it!”
We’re nearly finished when Dr. Crane pops his head in the door and points at the two of us. “Need you both at the bays. A multivehicle accident with life-threatening injuries is enroute.”
As a unit, Moira and I rush after him, once I check to ensure the self-locking door is closed. The last thing either of us need is a disciplinary report because someone got into our supply room, and stole a bunch of stuff. When we reach the bays, which are already open in preparation for the pending ambulances, I glance over at Dr. Crane to assess his mood so I can determine how urgent this upheaval is going to be.
He’s one of the best trauma surgeons in the region, although his gruff personality puts a lot of folks off, his dedication to giving his all to each patient is admirable. While I have no issues, thanks to working alongside my commanding officer, Branch, for years, many of the others do. Right now, he looks worried, which is concerning because I’ve never seen that formidable expression on his face before.
“Dr. Crane, do you know the severity of what we’re getting?” I question, grabbing some latex gloves to put on when I hear the sirens roaring in the distance and moving closer.
He glances at me and tensely replies, “Two vehicles, three occupants in total. One driver was DOA on the scene, the other appears to have minor bruising and lacerations. However, it’s the passenger in the other car that has me feeling concerned. In fact, I need one of you to page Dr. Patel to be on standby. I have a feeling I’m going to need him for this patient.”
“Got it, Dr. Crane,” Moira says, running over to the ‘house phone’ to request an urgent page for Dr. Patel.
“Is it that bad?” I whisper, my mind running rampant. “I mean, tonight was a big game at the high school, and I know the kids usually celebrate by hitting up the Burger Shack.”
He leans in, which is uncharacteristic for him, and confides, “From what was reported, one of the players was driving a juvenile home after going to the Burger Shack. The second vehicle ran the red light at a high rate of speed, broadsided the teen’s vehicle which shoved them into the power pole. They had to cut the juvenile out of the car but have stated he’s got multiple traumas, and it’s been difficult to stabilize him in the field. That’s why I wanted Patel to be on standby because he’s the best thoracic surgeon I know.”
I start praying, worried it’s one of Jett’s players, and know the parents of the deceased teen will be devastated. This news is going to change their lives. Death of a child is inconceivable to parents, and most struggle with depression afterward. As a matter of fact, the suicide rate for those who’ve lost their kid is high. All they want is to be with them, even if that’s only possible through death.
As the ambulances arrive, I notice the one with no lights or sirens goes to the first bay, then watch as a sheet-covered gurney is wheeled inside, so a doctor can make the official loss of life pronouncement. I hope whoever it was, they didn’t suffer needlessly. Dying on impact may be a cruel thing to wish for, but in my opinion, no one should have to endure horrific pain as they pass away.
A second and third ambulance are pulling in, and I mentally shift gears so I’m ready to handle whatever results may occur. When our patients are younger, it’s hard not to get attached, even though we’re encouraged not to do so. I see another team take the gurney, with what looks like a woman, back into the treatment rooms. Getting ready for what lies ahead, I take a deep breath as the doors of our ambulance open, and the paramedic on board starts rattling off vital stats while rolling the gurney toward us.
“Male, approximate age estimated to be between ten and twelve, sustained a hard hit on the right side of the body when the vehicle was crushed into the power pole,” she says, pushing the child to the back.
“Curtain three,” Dr. Crane commands, handing out a room number. Looking at me, he informs me, “It’s got the most openness for us to work.”
The paramedic continues relaying her report. “He was unconscious at the scene, has sustained multiple facial and upper body lacerations due to flying glass. The power pole entered the passenger compartment upon impact, causing several compound fractures which we’ve stabilized with field splints. C-spine collar in place due to likelihood of him taking a hit to the right side of his face. Blood pressure is now stable, but was erratic when we arrived on the scene. We’ve notified his father–” Her litany doesn’t pause, but my brain refuses to process anything past her last comment.
We’ve notified his father.
Not his parents, his father. Glancing at the gurney as we finally make it into curtain three, and have quickly, yet efficiently, transferred him onto the hospital bed, my heart stutters to a stop.
Dusty!
My Dusty. The little boy with the infectious laugh, who has become so important to me in such a short amount of time. Seeing the usually rambunctious preteen lying there so still, almost buckles my knees and I sway, but there’s a job to do. None more personally linked to me than this one, but I still force myself to keep things professional. Quickly sending up another prayer, I start to assess and catalog his vitals while Dr. Crane begins his exam, barking out orders which Moira and several other nurses with us in the triage room rush to handle.
“Is Patel here?” he questions, directing it to the room at large.
“Right here, Crane,” comes the male voice. “What do we know?”
“Need X-rays and multiple CAT scans, as well as an abdominal ultrasound, but based on his abdominal bruising and rigidity, I suspect internal bleeding,” Dr. Crane barks out, his eyes never straying from Dusty, while I work to cut and remove his clothes.
Without warning, alarm bells sound off, indicating that Dusty has stopped breathing. I don’t think, I just react, jumping onto the bed and digging my knees into the mattress next to his body where I begin chest compressions as Moira grabs the Ambu bag, and begins breathing for him. Dr. Crane and Dr. Patel grab the railings on the hospital bed, take off the brakes, and start running toward the prepped and waiting operating room.