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Authors: Eileen Dreyer
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of the chaos.
“He’s in arrest,” she clarified impatiently. “Let’s see a strip.” The paramedic paused and Janice ran a strip. “Fine v-fib. How ’bout we defibrillate?”
“All right, all right all right. Let’s go, then.” Ahmed was beginning to gear up. Once he finally got into the picture, he wouldn’t stop short of a power outage.
That was when Casey made a discovery. She’d been on the wrong side of the patient to see it, especially with everybody else crowded around. Of the injury she’d only seen the shattered remains of nose and eye socket, the blood and a bit of gray matter. She hadn’t noticed until she really looked what lay beneath that wound. Or around it.
Quickly she scanned the entire body to verify. What she’d taken as the effects of self-abuse had really been disease. The patient was in his sixties, and he was cachectic, ribs standing out like a starved horse. That and the purple markings that showed at the edge of his ear clinched it.
“Oh, God,” she breathed. “Chris, is the wife here?” Rocking back and forth over the patient like an oil-well arm, the paramedic shrugged. “Wasn’t at home when it happened. The neighbors were going to bring her in.”
“Clear, all clear,” Marva called, paddles in position. Chris pulled back.
“Does he have terminal cancer?” Casey asked.
Marva halted, thumbs poised over the red buttons.
“Shock him,” Ahmed shrilled, furious at the pause.
Marva hit the buttons and the patient convulsed.
“Nobody said anything,” Chris objected, leaning back into his CPR.
Casey turned to Janice. “Get out there and find the family. See if this guy has terminal CA. Find out what they want to do.”
“CA?” Ahmed echoed.
Casey pointed to the marking, the shaved hair that they wouldn’t have noticed beyond that devastating wound, the marking pen from where the radiologist had directed the radiation therapy that was meant to shrink the patient’s tumor.
“Maybe the gunshot was superfluous,” she suggested.
Until they found out there would be no choice. They would have to continue with full stops out. The patient had committed the cardinal sin of gunshot suicide, pointing the gun at his temple, almost ensuring failure. When the gun went off, it would jerk and send the bullet skipping toward the front. A survivable injury, a James Brady, they called it. Although this man had probably performed a self-inflicted lobotomy.
On the other hand, if he’d signed a statement forbidding extraordinary measures, there was no reason to revive him just to prolong his misery. If only they weren’t lucky before Janice got back with the word. If only they didn’t get him back. If only they could convince Ahmed to quit.
“I don’t care!” he shouted ten minutes later when the verdict—and the notarized statement forbidding extraordinary treatment—came in. “We do not quit! Get some more blood into him. Put a call in to the neurosurgeon on call. Open up dopamine and run it in.”
He was greeted by a forest of stricken faces. Nobody wanted to torture Mr. Melvin Tarlton any more than he had been. Nobody wanted to torture his wife or run up her already enormous bills. His private doctor had estimated him to have another month at best. The radiological oncologist had said that Melvin must have saved up what lucidity he had left to spare his family. And Ahmed wanted to drag them right back under.
Even so, it took Casey another ten minutes to finally reach her end point. They had long since passed into practice and experimentation, and she wasn’t in the mood for it. And still Ahmed wouldn’t quit.
“Ahmed, grow up,” Casey snapped at him after pleading, wheedling, and coercion hadn’t worked. “This is the twentieth century, and Mrs. Tarlton has a legal document. Let’s call this damn thing and get the fuck out of here.”
Only Casey had enough years to talk to him like that. Everyone else slowed their actions, inching toward
“He’s in arrest,” she clarified impatiently. “Let’s see a strip.” The paramedic paused and Janice ran a strip. “Fine v-fib. How ’bout we defibrillate?”
“All right, all right all right. Let’s go, then.” Ahmed was beginning to gear up. Once he finally got into the picture, he wouldn’t stop short of a power outage.
That was when Casey made a discovery. She’d been on the wrong side of the patient to see it, especially with everybody else crowded around. Of the injury she’d only seen the shattered remains of nose and eye socket, the blood and a bit of gray matter. She hadn’t noticed until she really looked what lay beneath that wound. Or around it.
Quickly she scanned the entire body to verify. What she’d taken as the effects of self-abuse had really been disease. The patient was in his sixties, and he was cachectic, ribs standing out like a starved horse. That and the purple markings that showed at the edge of his ear clinched it.
“Oh, God,” she breathed. “Chris, is the wife here?” Rocking back and forth over the patient like an oil-well arm, the paramedic shrugged. “Wasn’t at home when it happened. The neighbors were going to bring her in.”
“Clear, all clear,” Marva called, paddles in position. Chris pulled back.
“Does he have terminal cancer?” Casey asked.
Marva halted, thumbs poised over the red buttons.
“Shock him,” Ahmed shrilled, furious at the pause.
Marva hit the buttons and the patient convulsed.
“Nobody said anything,” Chris objected, leaning back into his CPR.
Casey turned to Janice. “Get out there and find the family. See if this guy has terminal CA. Find out what they want to do.”
“CA?” Ahmed echoed.
Casey pointed to the marking, the shaved hair that they wouldn’t have noticed beyond that devastating wound, the marking pen from where the radiologist had directed the radiation therapy that was meant to shrink the patient’s tumor.
“Maybe the gunshot was superfluous,” she suggested.
Until they found out there would be no choice. They would have to continue with full stops out. The patient had committed the cardinal sin of gunshot suicide, pointing the gun at his temple, almost ensuring failure. When the gun went off, it would jerk and send the bullet skipping toward the front. A survivable injury, a James Brady, they called it. Although this man had probably performed a self-inflicted lobotomy.
On the other hand, if he’d signed a statement forbidding extraordinary measures, there was no reason to revive him just to prolong his misery. If only they weren’t lucky before Janice got back with the word. If only they didn’t get him back. If only they could convince Ahmed to quit.
“I don’t care!” he shouted ten minutes later when the verdict—and the notarized statement forbidding extraordinary treatment—came in. “We do not quit! Get some more blood into him. Put a call in to the neurosurgeon on call. Open up dopamine and run it in.”
He was greeted by a forest of stricken faces. Nobody wanted to torture Mr. Melvin Tarlton any more than he had been. Nobody wanted to torture his wife or run up her already enormous bills. His private doctor had estimated him to have another month at best. The radiological oncologist had said that Melvin must have saved up what lucidity he had left to spare his family. And Ahmed wanted to drag them right back under.
Even so, it took Casey another ten minutes to finally reach her end point. They had long since passed into practice and experimentation, and she wasn’t in the mood for it. And still Ahmed wouldn’t quit.
“Ahmed, grow up,” Casey snapped at him after pleading, wheedling, and coercion hadn’t worked. “This is the twentieth century, and Mrs. Tarlton has a legal document. Let’s call this damn thing and get the fuck out of here.”
Only Casey had enough years to talk to him like that. Everyone else slowed their actions, inching toward
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