Posted by L. on January 05, 19100 at 20:29:57:
In Reply to: Bringing Out the Dead, 1. posted by L. on January 05, 19100 at 20:27:42:
The ER beeped and moaned around me as I stood at the counter writing my report about the man who'd just died. A train wreck, that's what it was, I thought. It'd felt like trying to stop a train with my hands since I'd walked into the dingy room in the little motel to find the man wheezing and gurgling on the floor by the broken television, his lungs filling with the fluid his heart was too weak to pump away. And of course there'd been four flights of narrow stairs to carry him down. It's probably a statistical truth that fewer people die on the first floor.
That's when I notice the boy standing there watching me, holding an ice pack in his hands. "Hey," he said, "Could you fix this for me?"
Oh, christ, he's cute, I thought. Dark skin and light brown eyes, full lips pulled back in a smile, his slender arms just barely muscular in their sleeveless shirt. "Uh, sure," I said and took the ice pack from him. I refilled it at the machine and held it out to him.
"Could you tie it back on?" he asked, pointing at his neck. "I got hurt playing football."
"Sure." I nestled the pack along the side of his neck, tying it gently along the other side, my fingers brushing along the silky nape.
"You know that guy that got shot yesterday on xxxx St.?" he asked.
I thought about it for a moment. Oh, yeah, I remembered. I remember humping the heavy bags and backboard through the mud and muck of the project courtyard, while the hysterical crowd screamed at me. One girl thrust herself near me to scream, "You took too long! Now he dead!" But when I saw the guy, lying upside down on the stairs, shot ten times at least, I thought with cynical annoyance, you've got to be kidding. And brushed it off and forgot it like all the rest.
"That was my cousin," the boy said, turning so that my hand slid from his neck to his shoulder, suddenly making it real for me again.
My partner called out to me from the ER's door, saying that we had to leave. "Hey, do me a favor, will you?" I asked the boy as I turned to leave.
"What?"
"Promise me you won't get shot."
"I promise," he said.
We climb the stairs carrying the heavy bags in a rush, expecting to deliver a baby, only to find the mother-to-be in no distress, her own bags in hand, waiting for us to give her a ride. But my scornful words are cut short as a tiny boy, two perhaps, comes running across the room, jumps on the sofa, and launches himself into my arms. "Daddy!" he squeals. It's a month before the teasing stops.
The alert tone went off, nearly making me spill diet coke down the front of my uniform.
"Medic Five, take it down to the corner of xxx and yyy for the man who says he's too afraid to live. Police are on scene."
"You're making that up."
"No, I'm not."
Goddamn! I threw the portable radio down onto the floor of the truck and slammed the door shut. "I can't believe this stupid shit!" I snarled. "Did they call a tow truck for the cop? Obviously he needs one…"
"What's the matter?" Eddie opened the passenger door and hopped up. "You want me to drive? You know how you drive when you're pissed."
"There's a reason the cop can't take this sack of shit to the hospital?"
"It's out of his district."
"That's a stupid reason."
"I didn't say it was a good reason…I don't suppose you could slow down a bit?"
"No. It's an emergency, remember?"
"Okay, I'll just keep my eyes shut."
And, just as I was pulling up, still seeing red, the radio crackled again. "Hey, there, Five, got some good news for ya. Turn it around and head back down to the two-thousand block of ggg St., for the overdose, code three."
I rummaged around on the floor for the radio. "I can do that." I said, and put the truck into a tight turn around, throwing my partner into the door and tossing things about in the back. I looked in the rearview mirror to see some guy jump up from the curb by the cop car that was parked there and start waving his hands. So long, sucker, I think. Let someone else handle your sob story.
I flicked on the lights and the siren and stomped down on the accelerator. Much as I liked getting a "real" call, it was halfway back across town. Response time was going to suck.
"Medic Five?"
"Talk to me, sweety."
"Got some information for you. Caller states your patient is a thirteen year old male. Possible overdose on Paxil and alcohol. Caller states he's unresponsive. Fire is enroute."
Oh, wonderful, I thought. I don't suppose I could go back and take the dweeb instead.
I think this town has a religious aversion to street signs. We passed the street twice before I decided it had to be it. "Are you sure this is it?" Eddie asked as we turned.
"I dunno, what do you think?" I answered, pointing with my chin at the two fire trucks, the fire command car, and the three police cars blocking the street.
"Cripes, what, is there nothing on HBO tonight?"
"Guess not. What do you expect? Taxpayers live in this neighborhood."
"Ah…"
It was a bit crowded inside the house, with all the firemen and the policemen standing about the kitchen, asking this frail looking old woman the same questions over and over. No sign of a patient anywhere, though. We stood there for a moment, until it was obvious we were being ignored.
"Okay, so what's the problem?" I asked in a loud voice, the voice Eddie calls my "Okay, I'm in charge now" voice.
"Oh!" the old woman said, standing up, policemen forgotten, "It's my grandson. He's in there!" She grabbed my arm and pulled me into a narrow hallway to find a very drunk, very small boy lying in his underwear on the floor in the bathroom. "He's been like this ever since he came home!"
"When was that?" I asked her, stalling. I could tell he was at that "soda pop" stage of drunkenness, where when you move them, they throw up. I can't stand drunk vomit. You know, we all have our limits.
"About an hour ago. He was at tutoring down the street, and he came back and locked himself in here. I had to break the lock when he wouldn't answer. He's a good boy! Really he is! He just has problems with his mother being dead and his father on drugs and…"
"Okay, well, let us have a look at him. What makes you think he took the Paxil?"
"The Paxil? I didn't say that. I said he was on it. Why, do you think he took some?"
"I…" How do you answer a question like that? What am I, psychic? That's when I felt something grab my ankle. I looked down to see the boy wrap his hands around my right foot and start to drag himself across the floor. That's nice, I thought. Don't you dare throw up on my foot. I knelt down beside him and took his blood pressure and checked his eyes. When I was fourteen I passed out drunk on the front lawn. I woke up in my own bed with a monster hangover and was grounded for two weeks. This boy, on the other hand, was going to the hospital. Progress, I suppose.
So Eddie brought in the stretcher and a couple of the firemen helped us get it, and the kid, through the narrow hall. The boy started to wake up, laughing and tossing his head from side to side. I kept a close watch, let me tell you. And sure enough, just as we were putting him in the truck, he spewed all over one of the firemen, and all over Eddie. He got a fair amount of it on himself, as well. I gave Eddie a smug look as he locked the stretcher in place. "Fuck you," he said under his breath. "Sometimes I hate your guts."
"Hey, you snooze, you lose."
In the back of the truck, on the way to the hospital, I put an IV into him and gave him a dose of narcan, just for g.p. (good practice). It didn't do anything, not that I'd expected it to; the boy was waking up a little anyway after he'd thrown up. Oh, and let's not forget his father, who'd shown up just as we were leaving, not standing too well himself, and gotten into the front of the ambulance. He kept looking back at the kid and me, yelling that he "better tell the man what you took! You little mother...." Until Eddie hit the brakes and told him to shut up or get out. He said it nicer than that; diplomatic, Eddie is, on occasion.
And the boy had now woken up more or less complete ly, and was trying to sit up, crying and going on about "Miss Terry," who wasn't at fault, since he'd stolen the vodka out her cabinet when she wasn't looking. The tutor, I imagine. And he kept trying to hug me. Now, not that I'm averse to being hugged by nearly naked boys; but he was covered in vomit, if you recall. We do all have our limits.
Sometimes I have tunnel vision when I'm dealing with patients. I hardly notice what's outside of a five-foot or so circle around me and whomever it is I'm working on. That has its up side and its down side. Fights break out among family members, and I don't even notice because Grandma is going to stop breathing if I don't get the tube, that sort of thing. And when a boy is really sick or really hurt; I hardly notice whether he's cute or not, because I haven't got the time. But this time, with this boy, I sure had the time. There was nothing for me to do but sit there, and the hospital was a long way away. So there I sat, listening to him moan, trying my best not to stare. It wasn't easy. And it's not so much that I even think he'd have noticed or even cared; it's a matter of professional pride.
So we dropped him off at the hospital. And I expected never to see him again.