end.
Only two frantic back-to-back shifts at St. Jude’s ER prevented me from trying to contact Michael Prince or Philip Maglio myself. And now, as I stood in St. Jude’s ER Trauma Room waiting for the ambulance with the rest of the team, I knew I wouldn’t be making any investigative queries any time soon.
I took the call. The receiver froze in my hand when the gravelly-voiced dispatcher told me, “I got a crew on its way with a neck stabbing. A drug dealer. Twenty-year-old male Hispanic…”
I swallowed away the dryness. “Status?”
“He lost a liter of blood at the scene. He’s begun to compromise his airway.”
“ETA?”
“Three minutes.”
I looked at the clock. 11:40 A.M. “Who stabs anyone before lunch?”
The dispatcher chuckled. “No such rules in the drug trade.”
“Okay, got it,” I said, but my mind was already elsewhere. Could this stabbing be related to Emily’s?
I’d barely hung up the phone when I heard the faint wa-wa-wa of the siren. Overhead the page of “Trauma—two minutes!” bellowed from the speakers. I raced down the hallway to the Trauma Room. The siren’s wail grew steadily. As I stepped into the room, one of the nurses handed me a yellow waterproof gown, gloves, and the clear face shield we always wear when facing the risk of spraying blood or body fluids. I had just slipped on the second set of gloves when the siren’s noise abruptly stopped.
There was a moment of quiet—the calm before the storm—and then shouts echoed down the hallway. Seconds later, the stretcher burst into the room. One paramedic propelled the stretcher; the other had his hand clamped against the patient’s neck, no doubt trying to plug a leaking dyke.
The Hispanic boy lay remarkably still on the stretcher. His color was dusky, his eyes bulging. He breathed in panicky short bursts, producing the kind of high-pitched gasps that brought an instinctive cringe. Thoughts of Emily evaporated as I hurried over to the critically ill patient.
The able paramedic—who I knew only as Juan—had his hand stapled to the boy’s neck. Without looking up, Juan said, “Kid’s name is Enrique Martinez.” Then he muttered something in Spanish to his patient.
“No English?” I stood on the other side of the hospital stretcher waiting for Juan and his partner to swing the boy over from the ambulance gurney.
“He does.” Juan nodded. “Just trying to reassure him. I told him that everything is okay. The doctor is here.”
I wondered.
Enrique had barely touched the stretcher when the nurse had the rest of his shirt (already cut open by the paramedics) off completely. The spaces between the ribs of his skinny gray chest sucked in with each small grunting breath. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Juan’s hand pulsed back and forth against Enrique’s neck. I didn’t need to lay a hand on the patient to know he had an expanding traumatic aneurysm of his carotid artery. Untreated, the only question was whether the wound would cause him to suffocate or bleed to death first. My money was on suffocation.
“We’re intubating. Now!” I said to the charge nurse, Grace. “Tell ENT and Vascular Surgery. He’s going to the OR stat as soon as we’ve tubed him.”
“Which drugs, Ben?” Grace asked.
“None.” My heart pounded and my mouth dried. I elbowed my way to the patient’s neck. “No time for drugs. And we can’t risk paralyzing him. His vocal cords might be totally obscured by the aneurysm.”
With monitors now attached to Enrique, alarms blared their concern that his pulse was too fast, his blood pressure too low, and his blood critically deprived of oxygen. All the while, Enrique lay wide-eyed and still on the stretcher, his nostrils flaring with each high-pitched gasp.
I leaned closer to him. “Enrique, we need to pass a tube into your lungs to help you breathe. You’re going to feel discomfort in your throat. You might even gag. But it will help. Trust me.”
Enrique
Only two frantic back-to-back shifts at St. Jude’s ER prevented me from trying to contact Michael Prince or Philip Maglio myself. And now, as I stood in St. Jude’s ER Trauma Room waiting for the ambulance with the rest of the team, I knew I wouldn’t be making any investigative queries any time soon.
I took the call. The receiver froze in my hand when the gravelly-voiced dispatcher told me, “I got a crew on its way with a neck stabbing. A drug dealer. Twenty-year-old male Hispanic…”
I swallowed away the dryness. “Status?”
“He lost a liter of blood at the scene. He’s begun to compromise his airway.”
“ETA?”
“Three minutes.”
I looked at the clock. 11:40 A.M. “Who stabs anyone before lunch?”
The dispatcher chuckled. “No such rules in the drug trade.”
“Okay, got it,” I said, but my mind was already elsewhere. Could this stabbing be related to Emily’s?
I’d barely hung up the phone when I heard the faint wa-wa-wa of the siren. Overhead the page of “Trauma—two minutes!” bellowed from the speakers. I raced down the hallway to the Trauma Room. The siren’s wail grew steadily. As I stepped into the room, one of the nurses handed me a yellow waterproof gown, gloves, and the clear face shield we always wear when facing the risk of spraying blood or body fluids. I had just slipped on the second set of gloves when the siren’s noise abruptly stopped.
There was a moment of quiet—the calm before the storm—and then shouts echoed down the hallway. Seconds later, the stretcher burst into the room. One paramedic propelled the stretcher; the other had his hand clamped against the patient’s neck, no doubt trying to plug a leaking dyke.
The Hispanic boy lay remarkably still on the stretcher. His color was dusky, his eyes bulging. He breathed in panicky short bursts, producing the kind of high-pitched gasps that brought an instinctive cringe. Thoughts of Emily evaporated as I hurried over to the critically ill patient.
The able paramedic—who I knew only as Juan—had his hand stapled to the boy’s neck. Without looking up, Juan said, “Kid’s name is Enrique Martinez.” Then he muttered something in Spanish to his patient.
“No English?” I stood on the other side of the hospital stretcher waiting for Juan and his partner to swing the boy over from the ambulance gurney.
“He does.” Juan nodded. “Just trying to reassure him. I told him that everything is okay. The doctor is here.”
I wondered.
Enrique had barely touched the stretcher when the nurse had the rest of his shirt (already cut open by the paramedics) off completely. The spaces between the ribs of his skinny gray chest sucked in with each small grunting breath. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Juan’s hand pulsed back and forth against Enrique’s neck. I didn’t need to lay a hand on the patient to know he had an expanding traumatic aneurysm of his carotid artery. Untreated, the only question was whether the wound would cause him to suffocate or bleed to death first. My money was on suffocation.
“We’re intubating. Now!” I said to the charge nurse, Grace. “Tell ENT and Vascular Surgery. He’s going to the OR stat as soon as we’ve tubed him.”
“Which drugs, Ben?” Grace asked.
“None.” My heart pounded and my mouth dried. I elbowed my way to the patient’s neck. “No time for drugs. And we can’t risk paralyzing him. His vocal cords might be totally obscured by the aneurysm.”
With monitors now attached to Enrique, alarms blared their concern that his pulse was too fast, his blood pressure too low, and his blood critically deprived of oxygen. All the while, Enrique lay wide-eyed and still on the stretcher, his nostrils flaring with each high-pitched gasp.
I leaned closer to him. “Enrique, we need to pass a tube into your lungs to help you breathe. You’re going to feel discomfort in your throat. You might even gag. But it will help. Trust me.”
Enrique
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