his knees. Shaking viciously, nearly unable to stand, he pushed to his feet. Finally, almost inaudibly at first, then a bit louder, he heard Cap cry out.
Lou’s heart stopped. Then it began hammering.
“Cap, it’s me! I’m here! I’m coming! I’m coming for you! Hang on, brother! Hang on!”
He raced to his right, as close to the crumbling precipice as he dared, peering over for a way down. It took twenty-five feet or so before he saw a slope he felt he could handle. On his belly, clawing to maintain contact with the dirt and stones, grabbing at roots and bushes, he worked his way down, pausing to listen for Cap’s voice, and each time believing he was hearing it.
Five feet … ten …
In the ER, Lou prided himself on staying cool even when faced with the most dire medical emergencies, or the most horrible crunches. Now he felt frantic and utterly out of control.
Five more feet … another five.
His slide loosened rocks, mud, and pebbles that rained down on him, getting in his mouth, and eyes. From his right, he felt certain he could hear Cap’s groans.
“Hang on, buddy! I’m almost there!”
Breathe in … breathe out. For God’s sake, Welcome, get it together. Whatever has happened over there, he needs you. The best friend you’ve ever had needs you!
The steep drop had begun to lessen. Lou stopped himself and peered through the trees. Nothing. The sounds were close, though. Very close. He pushed to his feet and thrashed to the right. A dozen more feet and he spotted Cap, spread-eagle on his back on a fairly level piece of rocky ground. He was continuing to moan, but was otherwise motionless. There was blood smeared across his face and shaved scalp from a cut across his forehead.
Then, as Lou hurried across the last ten feet, it registered that Cap’s right leg was bent at an odd angle. It took a moment to make sense of what he was seeing. When he did, his stomach instantly knotted. Protruding from a gash at the midpoint of Cap’s thigh, was a jagged, bloodied spear of white bone—the fractured mid-shaft of Cap’s femur.
CHAPTER 8
It is the obligation of the family, not the government, to provide for those who cannot provide for themselves.
—LANCASTER R. HILL, 100 Neighbors , SAWYER RIVER BOOKS, 1939, P. 167
For Lou, filthy and soaked, the scene was surreal.
Cap was moaning piteously. The jagged mid-shaft of his right femur, surrounded by spaghetti-like strands of muscle, protruded garishly from a four-inch gash—easily the worst compound fracture Lou had ever seen. A tree? A boulder? Whatever caused the break really didn’t matter. The femur was perhaps the strongest bone in the body, and the force that shattered it had to have been enormous. The leg, itself, was shortened and rotated.
Lou knelt beside the man more responsible for his recovery than anyone else beside himself. The two-inch laceration above his right brow was bleeding briskly, blood pooling in his eye socket and running down the center and side of his face. There were no other obvious injuries. Lou felt sick—nauseous and shaky. But he knew what he had to do.
Process.
At the center of treating multiple people with trauma, or one person with any number of injuries, was process—the step-by-step approach to evaluation, triage, and treatment. That this was his best friend and a virtual saint to all who knew him needed somehow to be put aside. Whatever had to be done to save his life, however dangerous or painful, had to be done.
As Lou checked Cap’s mouth, tongue, and airway, he flashed on a story the man had shared from when he was in his early teens and a group of thugs, all older than he was, kept beating and harassing him. In that neighborhood, there was never any way to avoid them. No place to hide for long. Cap’s solution was, no matter how bad the pummeling, to never let any of them know he was hurt. Before long, they lost interest and left him alone. Cap Duncan
Lou’s heart stopped. Then it began hammering.
“Cap, it’s me! I’m here! I’m coming! I’m coming for you! Hang on, brother! Hang on!”
He raced to his right, as close to the crumbling precipice as he dared, peering over for a way down. It took twenty-five feet or so before he saw a slope he felt he could handle. On his belly, clawing to maintain contact with the dirt and stones, grabbing at roots and bushes, he worked his way down, pausing to listen for Cap’s voice, and each time believing he was hearing it.
Five feet … ten …
In the ER, Lou prided himself on staying cool even when faced with the most dire medical emergencies, or the most horrible crunches. Now he felt frantic and utterly out of control.
Five more feet … another five.
His slide loosened rocks, mud, and pebbles that rained down on him, getting in his mouth, and eyes. From his right, he felt certain he could hear Cap’s groans.
“Hang on, buddy! I’m almost there!”
Breathe in … breathe out. For God’s sake, Welcome, get it together. Whatever has happened over there, he needs you. The best friend you’ve ever had needs you!
The steep drop had begun to lessen. Lou stopped himself and peered through the trees. Nothing. The sounds were close, though. Very close. He pushed to his feet and thrashed to the right. A dozen more feet and he spotted Cap, spread-eagle on his back on a fairly level piece of rocky ground. He was continuing to moan, but was otherwise motionless. There was blood smeared across his face and shaved scalp from a cut across his forehead.
Then, as Lou hurried across the last ten feet, it registered that Cap’s right leg was bent at an odd angle. It took a moment to make sense of what he was seeing. When he did, his stomach instantly knotted. Protruding from a gash at the midpoint of Cap’s thigh, was a jagged, bloodied spear of white bone—the fractured mid-shaft of Cap’s femur.
CHAPTER 8
It is the obligation of the family, not the government, to provide for those who cannot provide for themselves.
—LANCASTER R. HILL, 100 Neighbors , SAWYER RIVER BOOKS, 1939, P. 167
For Lou, filthy and soaked, the scene was surreal.
Cap was moaning piteously. The jagged mid-shaft of his right femur, surrounded by spaghetti-like strands of muscle, protruded garishly from a four-inch gash—easily the worst compound fracture Lou had ever seen. A tree? A boulder? Whatever caused the break really didn’t matter. The femur was perhaps the strongest bone in the body, and the force that shattered it had to have been enormous. The leg, itself, was shortened and rotated.
Lou knelt beside the man more responsible for his recovery than anyone else beside himself. The two-inch laceration above his right brow was bleeding briskly, blood pooling in his eye socket and running down the center and side of his face. There were no other obvious injuries. Lou felt sick—nauseous and shaky. But he knew what he had to do.
Process.
At the center of treating multiple people with trauma, or one person with any number of injuries, was process—the step-by-step approach to evaluation, triage, and treatment. That this was his best friend and a virtual saint to all who knew him needed somehow to be put aside. Whatever had to be done to save his life, however dangerous or painful, had to be done.
As Lou checked Cap’s mouth, tongue, and airway, he flashed on a story the man had shared from when he was in his early teens and a group of thugs, all older than he was, kept beating and harassing him. In that neighborhood, there was never any way to avoid them. No place to hide for long. Cap’s solution was, no matter how bad the pummeling, to never let any of them know he was hurt. Before long, they lost interest and left him alone. Cap Duncan
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