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Authors: Paul Doiron
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hadn’t focused on the smaller of the two men. My attention had been fixated first on the jaw-droppingly beautiful woman behind the counter and later on the tattooed thug. I’d barely noticed the big one’s sidekick, and the name Sewall—like Beal, Cates, or Sprague—is common in eastern Maine.
From his knees beside the bed, Doc looked up at Mrs. Sprague. “Doris, I need you to bring me all the blankets and sleeping bags you have in the house.”
The solid little woman embraced herself tightly. Her eyes had a glassy sheen. She seemed to be in a trance. “What did you say?”
“We need to wrap this man up in as many warm layers as possible. I’m barely getting a radial pulse.”
“Should I run a hot bath?” she asked.
“Christ no. He could have a heart attack from the shock.”
She began blinked rapidly. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Sprague,” I said. “Let me help you.”
Hypothermia is a decrease in the body’s core temperature to the degree where the entire cardiovascular and nervous systems collapse. The only way to treat it is to warm the afflicted person up gradually. Hospitals pump humidified air into the lungs and irrigate body cavities with warm liquids, but these methods were beyond our capabilities in the little Swiss chalet. The best we could do was wrap up Sewall like a burrito in as many layers of insulation as we could find.
I followed the woman from room to room, gathering up every Navajo blanket, down sleeping bag, and cotton sheet in the place. Doris Sprague found a hot-water bottle for me and began to fill it with water from the kitchen tap. We would apply it to Sewall’s armpits or his groin, above the femoral artery.
I brought the accumulated bedclothes into the room with the frozen man. It was obviously a teenage boy’s bedroom. A bureau held various sports trophies (baseball and basketball) and assorted animal teeth and skulls. There was a picture of the pop singer Katy Perry on one wood-paneled wall; on another was a poster of an airbrushed-looking wolf, which was staring out at the room with the same intensely blue eyes as Ms. Perry’s. The poster bore the slogan IN WILDNESS IS THE PRESERVATION OF THE WORLD.
“How’s our patient?”
“Not good. He needs to get to a hospital. I don’t know how long the EMTs will take to get here—if they can get here—but we have our work cut out for us. At best, he’s going to lose some fingers and toes from the frostbite.”
“It’s the worst case I’ve seen,” I said.
“Can you find some fluids for him?”
I went into the kitchen and found Doris Sprague standing beside the still-running kitchen tap. She wasn’t making a sound, but tears were sliding down her cheeks. I turned the faucet off and gently set my hand on the woman’s shaking shoulder.
“Do you have any Jell-O?” I asked.
She gazed up at me and her mouth opened. “Are you hungry?”
“No, ma’am. It’s for our patient. If we can get him to drink some hot liquid Jell-O, it would help.”
“Is raspberry OK?”
“Any flavor is fine.”
I looked around the kitchen. There were two dirty plates with chicken bones on the counter beside the sink, two sets of dirty silverware, four empty Moxie cans. In our circuit through the sad rooms of the house, I realized, we hadn’t encountered another person—neither this “Joey” nor the man of the house himself.
“Where’s your husband, Mrs. Sprague?”
“Out looking for the other one.”
“What other one?”
“This one’s friend.”
I tried to make my voice soft and reassuring. “Mrs. Sprague, can you tell me what happened here tonight? From the beginning.”
As she spoke, she seemed to regain her presence of her mind little by little. “Ben and I had finished eating and were listening to the radio when we heard a thud at the front of the house. At first we thought it was snow falling off the roof, but it sounded too heavy for that. So Ben took a look outside and
From his knees beside the bed, Doc looked up at Mrs. Sprague. “Doris, I need you to bring me all the blankets and sleeping bags you have in the house.”
The solid little woman embraced herself tightly. Her eyes had a glassy sheen. She seemed to be in a trance. “What did you say?”
“We need to wrap this man up in as many warm layers as possible. I’m barely getting a radial pulse.”
“Should I run a hot bath?” she asked.
“Christ no. He could have a heart attack from the shock.”
She began blinked rapidly. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Sprague,” I said. “Let me help you.”
Hypothermia is a decrease in the body’s core temperature to the degree where the entire cardiovascular and nervous systems collapse. The only way to treat it is to warm the afflicted person up gradually. Hospitals pump humidified air into the lungs and irrigate body cavities with warm liquids, but these methods were beyond our capabilities in the little Swiss chalet. The best we could do was wrap up Sewall like a burrito in as many layers of insulation as we could find.
I followed the woman from room to room, gathering up every Navajo blanket, down sleeping bag, and cotton sheet in the place. Doris Sprague found a hot-water bottle for me and began to fill it with water from the kitchen tap. We would apply it to Sewall’s armpits or his groin, above the femoral artery.
I brought the accumulated bedclothes into the room with the frozen man. It was obviously a teenage boy’s bedroom. A bureau held various sports trophies (baseball and basketball) and assorted animal teeth and skulls. There was a picture of the pop singer Katy Perry on one wood-paneled wall; on another was a poster of an airbrushed-looking wolf, which was staring out at the room with the same intensely blue eyes as Ms. Perry’s. The poster bore the slogan IN WILDNESS IS THE PRESERVATION OF THE WORLD.
“How’s our patient?”
“Not good. He needs to get to a hospital. I don’t know how long the EMTs will take to get here—if they can get here—but we have our work cut out for us. At best, he’s going to lose some fingers and toes from the frostbite.”
“It’s the worst case I’ve seen,” I said.
“Can you find some fluids for him?”
I went into the kitchen and found Doris Sprague standing beside the still-running kitchen tap. She wasn’t making a sound, but tears were sliding down her cheeks. I turned the faucet off and gently set my hand on the woman’s shaking shoulder.
“Do you have any Jell-O?” I asked.
She gazed up at me and her mouth opened. “Are you hungry?”
“No, ma’am. It’s for our patient. If we can get him to drink some hot liquid Jell-O, it would help.”
“Is raspberry OK?”
“Any flavor is fine.”
I looked around the kitchen. There were two dirty plates with chicken bones on the counter beside the sink, two sets of dirty silverware, four empty Moxie cans. In our circuit through the sad rooms of the house, I realized, we hadn’t encountered another person—neither this “Joey” nor the man of the house himself.
“Where’s your husband, Mrs. Sprague?”
“Out looking for the other one.”
“What other one?”
“This one’s friend.”
I tried to make my voice soft and reassuring. “Mrs. Sprague, can you tell me what happened here tonight? From the beginning.”
As she spoke, she seemed to regain her presence of her mind little by little. “Ben and I had finished eating and were listening to the radio when we heard a thud at the front of the house. At first we thought it was snow falling off the roof, but it sounded too heavy for that. So Ben took a look outside and
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