29. Jonah
TWENTY-NINE
Jonah
UAB Hospital
10:08 AM
I’ve been here since six this morning. I was originally called in for an emergency appendectomy on a teenager, and it looks like I will put in a full day before I get out of here.
Sweet.
Just as I was finishing the surgery, word of a multi-car pileup on I-65 came through. Murphy's Law that my Sunday on-call would turn into an extra full ten-hour shift.
Now, the place is swamped. Gurneys line the hallway as paramedics relay information to the nurses at triage for multiple critical care level patients.
“Dr. Bellinger, incoming!” a voice calls, snapping me back to the present.
The double doors swing open, and a trauma team rushes in with a patient strapped to a stretcher. There is blood on the white sheets and an oxygen mask over his face.
The paramedic’s voice is clipped and precise. “Male, early forties, restrained driver. Blunt abdominal trauma, suspected liver laceration. BP’s dropping despite fluids. ETA from the scene was twelve minutes.”
I step forward, taking in the patient’s pale, sweaty face and the swelling just below his ribs. “Let’s get him to Trauma Bay Two,” I order, moving alongside the stretcher. “Page Radiology for a FAST scan stat and prep for surgical intervention. Carly, you’re with me.”
“Got it,” Carly says, already moving ahead to clear a path.
As we wheel the patient into the bay, the air feels electric with urgency. The paramedic’s voice echoes in my ears: blunt abdominal trauma, BP dropping despite fluids. My mind’s already running through possibilities as the trauma team moves like clockwork around me.
“FAST scan, now,” I say again, my tone sharp but calm. “Carly, start a second IV line. Hang O-neg. And let’s get the OR prepped—this one’s not waiting.”
The ultrasound machine is rolled in within moments, and I watch as the probe glides over the patient’s distended abdomen. My entire body tingles at the sight of black on the screen—free fluid pooling where it shouldn’t be.
“Grade III liver laceration, most likely,” I say aloud. “He’s bleeding out fast.”
“We’ve got a room ready,” Carly says, already two steps ahead.
I nod. “Dr. Hankel on his way?”
“Just paged. ETA five minutes.”
“Good. Let’s move. Carly, I want a massive transfusion protocol in place before we start. Get those labs drawn—type and crossmatch. And someone get his family on the line.”
As we transfer the patient to the OR gurney, I glance at the monitor. His BP is still tanking, but he’s hanging on. Barely.
“Hang in there,” I murmur under my breath, more to myself than to him. This is what I do. Keep it together. Solve the problem. Save the life.
The scan confirms my suspicion: there’s a Grade III liver laceration.
Carly glances at me. “You good, Bellinger? This guy’s circling the drain.”
I nod, already scrubbing in. “We’re good. Let’s move.”
The surgery goes smoothly—a testament to the well-oiled machine that is our trauma team. By the time we’re closing, the patient’s vitals are stabilizing, and I feel the familiar hum of satisfaction that comes from saving a life.
But as I step out of the OR and strip off my gloves, the needle stick from earlier in the week creeps into my thoughts. It’s been gnawing at me since it happened, like a splinter I can’t remove.
The results came back fine—no HIV, no hepatitis—but it was a stark reminder that I’m not invincible. One careless moment, one lapse in focus, and everything could come crashing down.
“Dr. Bellinger,” a nurse interrupts my spiral. “They need you back in the ER. Multiple criticals from the pileup still incoming.”
I nod, pushing the thoughts aside. There’s no time to dwell. Not here.
Back in the ER, a young woman is being wheeled in on a stretcher. Her face is bloody, and one arm is twisted at an unnatural angle. The paramedic rattles off her injuries: “Female, mid-twenties, unrestrained passenger. Open femur fracture, significant blood loss. BP’s holding for now, but barely.”
I make a quick assessment. “Let’s stabilize that leg and get X-rays. Start two large-bore IVs and hang B-positive. We’ll need an OR open as soon as she’s ready.”
Another stretcher comes in behind her—an older man clutching his chest, his face gray. My mind shifts gears, triaging in real time.
Hours after arriving for a single call that should have taken three hours, the ER finally begins to calm. The most critical patients are either stabilized or in surgery. I grab a bottle of water and lean against the wall near the breakroom. My body aches from the day’s demands.
What I had imagined to be a lazy Sunday has quickly transformed into an all-hands-on-deck day. I look at my watch. I know I still have miles to go before I can check out. I will make rounds on everyone I saw come through me.
Carly walks by, tossing her gloves into the biohazard bin. “You look like hell,” she says, not unkindly.
“Feel like it too,” I admit, taking a swig of water.
Her gaze sharpens. “You heard back about your labs, right?”
I nod, surprised by the shift in topic. “Yeah. Everything came back clear.”
She lets out a breath. “Good. You’ve been off lately, and it’s not like you.”
“I’m fine,” I say, more sharply than I intend. But her words linger. She’s not wrong—about the labs, about me. That stick wasn’t just a scare; it was a wake-up call.
I pull out my phone, and Harper’s name catches my eye. I sent her a quick text earlier, something about being stuck here for hours, and she replied with a simple line of encouragement that somehow makes it all feel a little less daunting.
Hang in there. You got this.
This is the first chance I've had to even look at my phone in two hours.
Hey, you. Hope you're Sunday is going how I imagined mine might. I'm living vicariously through you. Still have a few more hours here. Thinking about you.
Her words warm something in me, a reminder that I don’t have to carry everything alone. It's a nice feeling knowing I have someone outside of here who’s waiting for me when I finally leave. Different. New. But comforting.
For now, I pocket the phone and head back into the ER. There’s still work to be done.
12:39 PM
I step into the break room and lean against the back of the leather sofa with my phone pressed to my ear. It’s been one hell of a day, but the text from Lila earlier caught my attention. Now that I have a moment to breathe, I call her back.
She picks up on the second ring. “Hey, Bro,” she says, her voice softer than usual. “You saving lives and taking names?”
“It's the only way I know how to do Sundays,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Sounds like you and Mom and Dad have been busy. How are you feeling?”
“I feel good,” she says cheerfully. “I'm still sore, but the bruises are almost gone. And I can take a deep breath without wincing, so... progress.”
“That’s good to hear,” I say, leaning back against the counter. “What about the ribs?”
“They’re still tender to the touch, but the doctor said that’s normal. He cleared me for travel, though. Which is good because... We’ve picked out the rehab program, and there is a bed for me next week.”
I blink, caught off guard. “Really? That’s great, Lila.”
“Yeah,” she says, and there’s a hint of nervousness in her voice. “It’s in North Carolina. Six weeks in-patient, then twelve weeks of outpatient therapy. Mom and Dad are helping me get there and get set up.”
“That’s amazing, Lila,” I say, cautiously optimistic. “You feel ready for it?”
“I don’t think anyone’s ever ready for this kind of thing,” she says with a small laugh. “But I know I have to do it. I can’t keep living like this, Jonah. I’ve hit rock bottom, and I don’t want to drag anyone else down with me.”
Her honesty surprises me. “Lila, that’s... I’m proud of you. Seriously. This is the right move.”
“Thanks,” she says quietly. “And thanks for letting me stay at your place. I know you’re not there much, but it’s been a huge help. I've noticed you've essentially moved out, so you should be happy to know you can have your bachelor pad back.”
“My absence has nothing to do with you,” I say, brushing off her gratitude, though her words do warm something in my chest. “You know I've been shacking up with a certain lady friend. When do you leave?”
That garners a good laugh. “Well, I'm glad you're able to get you some. Even though that's gross to think about. Anyway, I'm leaving Tuesday,” she clears her throat. “Mom and Dad are driving me up. I might need some rehab after all of this family time alone.”
“True, that,” I say, my voice softening. “This is all good stuff. You deserve a fresh start, kid sister.”
She lets out a breath, and I can almost hear her smile. “Thanks, Jonah. I’ll keep you updated, of course. Just wanted to tell you where things are.”
“Of course,” I say. “I'll see you before you leave. I've actually got to run now, but I'll call you later when I leave the hospital.”
“Sounds good. Toodles.”
I hang up and stare at the phone for a moment, letting the conversation settle. I never could have imagined these turn of events a month ago. I've never felt so happy for one of my family members as I am for her.
Maybe this is a turning point for all of us.
A light tap on my office door frame, and a nurse pokes her head in to let me know my last patient is stable. I nod and decide to take a few more minutes. I dial my mom’s number, fully expecting voicemail, but she answers on the first ring.
“Jonah,” she says, and there’s a warmth in her voice that catches me off guard. “How are you?”
“Busy,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “But I talked to Lila earlier. She told me about rehab. That's great news.”
“She did?” Mom asks, and there’s a note of relief in her tone. “I’m glad. We weren’t sure if she’d tell you before or after she left.”
“She seems hopeful about it,” I say. “But how are you and Dad holding up?”
“We’re fine,” she says, though I catch the hesitation. “It’s a lot, but we’re managing. It's good therapy for all of us to help her get the help she needs.”
“What about the money she owes?” I ask, steering the conversation to the part that’s been nagging at me. “Have you figured that out?”
“Yes,” she says, and there’s a hint of finality in her voice. “Your dad closed the HELOC on the house Friday. We paid the full amount—seventy-seven thousand, four hundred and twelve dollars.”
I whistle low. “That’s a lot of dough.”
“It is,” she agrees. “But Lila is insistent on paying it back. She’ll live at home with us once she’s out of rehab and work until it’s paid off. The money will go directly to the bank.”
I raise an eyebrow, skeptical. “And you believe she’ll stick to that?”
“She says so, Jonah,” Mom says firmly. “She wants to take responsibility for her actions. She said it’s part of her recovery. And, honestly, I think she means it this time.”
Her words give me pause. Harper had said something similar—that letting Lila face the consequences might be what she needed. “Well,” I say finally, “good for her. And good for you and Dad, stepping up like this.”
“It’s what we should have done a long time ago,” Mom says, and there’s a note of regret in her voice. “We’re trying, Jonah. I know we’ve made mistakes, but we’re trying.”
I put my feet up on my desk as the weight of her words settle on my chest. “I appreciate it,” I say after a moment. “And I’m here if you need anything.”
“Thank you,” she says softly. “How are you holding up?”
“I'm good, Mom,” I reply, keeping my tone light. “Work is busy, but you know, that is part of what keeps me ticking.”
She chuckles faintly. “That I do. Take care of yourself, Jonah. And call if you need anything.”
“I will,” I say. “Bye, Mom.”
“Bye, sweetheart.”
I hang up and take a deep breath, letting the conversation play again in my head. Lila’s going to rehab. My parents are doing something for once. I've got someone I'm happy to commit to that doesn't put me in a panic and make me feel like running for the hills.
Life is good.