“Guilty,” I admit, which earns me a groan.
We’re three of the four anesthesiologists at Bayside Regional, a level one trauma center in the heart of Tampa Bay. Of the four, I’m the youngest, and the newest addition to the staff — which means I’ve become quite used to being riffed on every morning.
“Do you schedule in your fun, too?” Stacy teases.
“Sure do. I’ve got an exciting documentary on the history of the justice system in America penciled in for this evening, if you’re looking for a wild time.”
“The sad thing is that I’m a thousand percent sure you are not kidding right now,” she muses.
Dr. Banks is a woman who commands attention in every way. If the fact that she’s just shy of six feet wasn’t enough to do it, just one look at her cat-like eyes or one conversation where she not-so-subtly puts your educational training to shame would do the trick. She earned my respect the first day I met her, and I’m not naïve enough to think I’ll ever earn hers in return — not until I’ve served much more than the two years I’ve been at Bayside, anyway.
“Did I hear you say coffee?” Ray asks her. “Because this old man isn’t going to make it to eight A.M. without it.”
But before Stacy can answer or they can take even one step toward the elevator, there’s an announcement on the overhead.
“Code T, four, arrival time ten minutes.”
Those words seem to suck the air out of the room, and the three of us are silent, exchanging glances for just microsecond before we launch into action.
“I’ll prep OR three, four, and six for trauma,” Stacy says, and then she’s gone.
“I’ll handle the cases. Go,” Ray tells me, and without another word being needed, he heads back to his office as I jog for the elevator and push the level 1 button that will take me to the Emergency Room.
There was a time when my hands would shake in a moment like this, when the announcement of mass trauma coming into the hospital would have me sweating and my heart galloping like a wild horse. But through my residency in Chicago, I learned to tame those nerves, to work through breathing exercises on the elevator ride down to the Emergency Department.
In for four, hold for four, out for eight.
In for four, hold for four, out for eight.
I get in four rounds before the elevator drops me and the handful of other doctors who jumped on at other floors into the Emergency Department hallway.
We’re immediately met with what a normal person would see as chaos, but what feels like just another day to most of us.
Doctors in green, nurses in blue and pink, all of them running around and hollering out orders to one another. Rooms are being prepped, every doctor and nurse available is flooding the first floor, and when the first EMS team shows up with a bloody patient writhing on their gurney, I take one last long inhale before I lock into trauma mode.
It’s a blur of flashing emergency lights and trauma calls and blood and groans and intake nurses frantically trying to get patient information. As I fly around checking each new one who comes in, deciding in rapid speed whether my services are needed or not, I catch little glimpses of what’s going on.
Pile up on I-4 where it meets 275.
Dense fog.
Dozens of cars.
No firm number of how many yet.
I latch onto what details I need and let go of the rest, focusing on assessing each new patient who flies through those double doors. I work through my training like it’s second nature now, checking airways and sending those with critical injuries up to the OR with a quick page to Dr. Banks to let her know they’re en route.
Through the chaos, I catch a quick glimpse of Dr. Munroe — better known to me as Beck. An internist with a love for scotch, Beck was one of the first to befriend me when I was hired at Bayside Regional. Right now, he’s watching our other good friend and EMT, Asher Moore, push through the chaos with a bloody patient on a gurney.
“Open fracture, left lower leg, good pulses,” Asher says. “I’ve administered two milligrams of Dilaudid.”
Dr. Mains quickly steps in, taking over driving the bed. “I’ve got him. Take him to trauma room two.”
Beck and I exchange one quick glance before his name is called by Tessa, the head nurse.
“Beck, we have a seventy-five-year-old male here.”
Without hesitation, he hops to pace beside her. “Trauma room five is open.”
“Dr. Weston, over here!”
My head snaps in the direction of my name being called, and another bloody gurney rushes toward me.
“She’s communicating pain in the upper left quadrant,” one of the resident nurses tells me. He’s new, young, and his eyes are wide as saucers as his voice shakes through the patient details. “There’s bruising. Accelerated heart rate. Dr. Simmons is calling an exploratory laparotomy after performing ultrasound and CT.”
I nod, reaching for my Vocera. “Exploratory Laparotomy, possible internal bleeding.”
There’s barely a pause before Dr. Banks voices back. “OR six.”
The young nurse looks at me, waiting for me to tell him if he should take the patient or if I will, but I’m shocked silent at the realization of who it is on the gurney.
Amanda Parks.
A flash of a night long ago hits me like a hammer to the head, and I see those honey eyes rimmed in black, tears staining her cheeks, bruises covering her arms. I feel her soft hair cascading over my shoulder as she leans into me, feel my heart hammering out of my chest as dangerous thoughts war in my head.
Kiss her. Comfort her. Take away her pain.
Stay still. Don’t move. She’s your best friend’s mom.
“Doctor?”
The nurse’s voice snaps me back, and I suck in a breath at the sight of Amanda’s bloody hair matted to her head, at the sound of her pained groans. Her hands twist in the gurney sheet over her stomach, and she curls in on herself.
“I’ve got her,” I tell the nurse, and then I’m off, wheeling the bed toward the elevator. “Tell Dr. Simmons it’s OR six.”
He nods and jets off in the other direction.
“Mrs. Parks, can you hear me?”
Amanda groans, nodding subtly, and my heart catches in my throat. She’s bruised, bloody, and weakening by the minute.
And it’s not the first time I’ve seen her this way.
“My name is Dr. Weston.”
“Weston…” she groans, her brows pinching together, but she doesn’t say anything more.
“Do you know where you are?”
“The hospital,” she murmurs as we wheel into the elevator. I punch the number for the seventh floor.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
She attempts a swallow. “Car accident.”
“Yes. You’re okay, Mrs. Parks. I’m taking you to the operating room. We’re going to look into that pain you’re feeling, okay?”
She nods, sweat beading on her forehead as another wave of pain takes her under. She groans, curling in on herself.
“I’m going to administer general anesthesia for this procedure. Do you understand?”
A weak nod.
“It’ll put you right to sleep and you won’t feel a thing,” I tell her when we hit the operating floor. I’m met by another team of nurses who take over the bed, and I rush alongside them still talking to Amanda. “Dr. Simmons will take care of you. You’re in good hands.”