Chapter 1 #2
“Okay, let’s do a quick rundown, then we can go back to getting stations prepared.
” I talk my team through what we know, the possible injuries we’re facing, and other potential injuries and risks I want them to keep an eye out for before I turn the room over to them, so they each get a turn to explain what they’ll be doing and how they’d manage the situation.
It’s how I learned on the job, so it’s how I teach.
Situational experience is vastly different from learning out of textbooks and lecture halls.
And the same can be said about small clinics versus large hospitals.
After a final once-over of the room and equipment, along with a private chat with everyone I’m supervising, I focus on getting myself ready.
I wash my hands for a second time, slather on scent blocker, and suit up, hiding my hair under a cap and pulling up a surgical mask so all that remains visible are my eyes.
I pull down the plastic visor to protect my eyes from splatter.
There’s a noticeable drop in the atmosphere, and my heart thuds, recognizing what's about to happen, but also that moment of excitement that comes from doing the very thing I enjoy doing—helping people as best I can. Being a doctor is like the ultimate comfort, bar the blood and guts, that is.
The stretcher appears first, and the paramedic pushing it in gets straight down to business. “I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s like Armageddon out there. Apparently, The Royal is even worse. A line of ambulances is already queuing.”
The Royal is the local hospital, which means our day might be even busier than first considered.
As soon as the brakes lock on the stretcher, my team moves with unspoken synchronicity as we transfer the patient onto a table. I feel the tension fade away to nothing. I love the rush I get as my movements become fluid-like, my thoughts clear and focused.
The paramedics stay out of our way. One stays near the cart, ready to move it out of the way, and the other starts relaying to our unit coordinator what they’ve done and seen since their first call out and subsequent patient care.
A part of working in ER is being able to assess and change in a split second.
After seeing the patient, and hearing the paramedics rundown, I know I—with a very small team—can handle the stabbing victim.
Based on the wave of other casualties on their way or already in the clinic, I bark off orders like an Alpha and send the majority of my team out to help other teams.
Those who stay with me quickly settle into an easy and precise rhythm.
One of them cuts away the patient's very expensive-looking suit.
Generally, people don’t bitch about their clothes when the option is survival, but I’ve certainly had a few patients take issue. Thankfully, this patient isn’t one of them.
The anesthesiologist steps past where I’m working and starts trying to speak with him.
The stab wound on his torso is more of a concern than his forearm.
The bandages on his arms, wrapped by the paramedics, aren’t saturated with blood, which, for an initial assessment, is what I use to determine the likelihood of him bleeding out.
Before we start on the stab wound on his torso, I want to determine if he’s got internal bleeding.
If I have any doubts, I’ll send him to X-ray, but at the same time, there’s a few tests you can do first. I’m pretty confident that, after a few stitches, he’ll be okay.
Rattling off notes for the nurse, I twist to get what I need but am nearly knocked off my feet by a sudden, unexpected burst of aggression.
Stepping out from behind the anesthesiologist, I glance at our patient for the first time.
He’s all Alpha, shockingly good-looking, and currently in a bitch of a mood trying to swat the needle away.
His eyes are glazed, and even though he’s swatting my anesthesiologist away, it’s pretty easy to see he’s not fully with us.
“Hey!” I latch on to Dr. Peters’s scrubs and drag him out of danger.
But Dr. Peters is an Alpha too, and clearly, these two have some clash going on because he refuses to budge.
My own designation rises as fast as theirs.
While they instinctively wind each other up, Omegas have an ability to calm.
Well, that’s how I justify my actions, forcing myself into the space between them because, at the end of the day, as the senior doctor, I’m responsible for everyone’s well-being.
I look at Peters for an explanation. He’s as pissed off as our patient, given the glare he’s directing over my shoulder, despite my interference.
“What’s going on?” I push, dropping as much command as I can into my question. Admittedly, it always pisses me off when we have to deal with Alpha BS instead of tending to wounds, so I come off pretty aggressively.
I feel the air shift behind me.
For an Omega to be sensitive to others is common, manageable with medication and lotions. Considering I’ve already done everything I could to counter the impact of other designations ie. Alphas, the way I start responding to the smallest cues from our patient is probably not a good sign.
“Nichego,” the man snaps before hissing under his breath like an angry viper. “Nyet! Nothing to knock me out.”
I turn to face our patient, watching as he slams his eyes shut and pushes himself against the pillows in his bitchy mood.
His halo of hair is black as night and highlights a large scar running down his forehead, ending on his cheek.
His accent gave him away as Eastern European, reinforced by his high, sharp facial structure and thin, straight nose.
With his eyes still firmly shut, he jabs his finger at my anesthesiologist with one hand while scratching at his throat with the other. “This suka not listen. My arm…”
In the middle of our patient losing his shit, his breathing becomes labored. His eyes fly open, but they’re full of panic, leeching the color from them. “Feels like fire. My…”
What he’s trying to say gets buried deep under a long groan. The sound he makes is universal and only comes from distress. His limbs seize up, his body becoming as stiff as a board.
We all jump into rescue mode.
His face is a vivid shade of red and getting darker, and his fingers are clawed.
Anaphylactic shock is horrific to witness. And clearly something we’ve given him triggers it.
I disassociate from the scene and react on learned memory.
“Clear,” I yell as I jam the medication into the Alpha’s thigh.
Given the Alpha’s size, I use a second EpiPen.
With the medication administered, we move on to fixing his breathing issues.
Reaching into the drawer to get a tongue press so we can insert a tube, my fingers close around nothing.
The nurse opposite turns to check her drawer for what we need, but we’re wasting time, and our patient isn’t breathing.
I have my fingers, and in an emergency, they will do. I wedge them into his mouth, fighting hard to open his jaw. I need to press his tongue down to open his airways, and I need to do it now.
It’s hard work, but I keep wiggling in the small space, plying my fingers in deeper.
“Where the hell is the…”
An endotracheal intubation is passed over before I can finish speaking. The nurse moves in and helps me. It’s hard going; the Alpha’s body is still in panic mode and subconsciously fighting against me doing my job.
She shifts out of my way, so I can wiggle the tube in better, then she drops her weight on his chest in an attempt to calm his natural, primordial side. It works, and we get the tube down his throat.
We’re working around each other, and our hands crisscross as she attaches the tube to the pump.
Something tugs the tube, but she doesn’t notice the shift because she’s focusing on setting up the manual intubation.
I go to fix the positioning of the tube when his jaw snaps shut, locking down on my hand.
“Oh my god!” I whine desperately, feeling the power of his bite radiate all the way down my arm right to my finger tips.
Where there was a coordinated approach to the patient, the focus of the team shifts, and everyone wrestles with him to free my hand. But he’s completely out of it, so it’s like fighting concrete.
I’m as useless as he is, doing nothing to help. I come back to my senses the moment he stops biting down. But then, before I can process what is going on, I’m rushed out of the room by one of the junior doctors and herded into a spare workspace.
“Shit, Quinn,” the doctor says, his voice pitching in his stress.
“It’s okay,” I mumble to myself. My pulse is hammering so hard, it’s making the adrenaline flood my system like a powerful tsunami crashing against my defenses.
Never in a million years would I think something like this would happen to me. In med school, you hear about some really shitty injuries happening when patients are freaking out, but that’s not the same as it actually happening.
The doctor puts my shaking hand flat on an examination table, pulling down the light, which acts like a spotlight on the Alpha’s crescent-shaped bite.
My skin is hidden under the blood around the bite.
I see it, but only just as my vision tunnels and a howling noise builds in my ears.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I start taking short, panting breaths so I don’t fucking faint.
“Shit,” the doctor says again.
I should know his name, but right at this minute, it’s not something I can remember.
I look at his name tag, and I can read his name, but it still doesn’t register.
The noises in my head won’t let up, and I’m shaking like I’m caught in an earthquake.
But I can’t fall apart. I can’t be a victim of my designation.
A weak Omega doesn’t save anyone, let alone themselves.
Gritting my jaw so hard until it hurts, I use the pain as a focus and start to wrestle control of my mind by reciting the procedure involved with Alpha bites. Out loud. For him, but more so for me.
By the time he’s done everything to textbook perfection, the initial shock waves have nearly gone. The longer we chat about checklists, systems, and procedures, the more settled I become. We’re discussing possible changes to protocol when the charge nurse appears.
“Are you good, Quinn?”
“Yeah. I did not see myself being the patient. I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t be silly, it’s not your fault,” she throws in, though we all know it kind of is my fault. She rushes over her faux pas with a smile. “Let’s blame the full moon.”
“How’s the patient?” I ask, hopping off the table and helping the other doctor, whose name still won’t stick, clean and wipe down the room to get ready for our next “real” patient.
“Stable. Everyone was more worried about you.”
“I can’t believe it happened.” I blaze, probably as pink as a flamingo.
Thankfully, no one comments on it again. Later, I'm sure we’ll sit down and work through what the hell happened, but for now, we’ve still got people to save. Including him.
“So, do you think you’re good to help again? If not, I can get Ian here to help, right?”
“I can definitely help. Ian did a great job. No stitches needed, and I’m all wrapped up and raring to go.” I don’t lie, but it is a stretch of the truth.
Instead of grilling me, she disappears back into the area where I got mauled, which is a sign of her faith that I am good to go again. After a thank you to Ian, I return to the scene of the crime.
As soon as I step inside, the nurse is giving me a rundown of everything that has happened since I left. It’s crazy it was only minutes ago; it felt like I was gone much longer.
Getting the patient breathing was their objective, and now I’m back, I’ll be treating the reason he showed up in the first place. The stab wounds.
I wait until she’s wiped him down with iodine, the yellow liquid staining his tanned skin a honey color.
The plastic sheet she places to keep the area sterile cuts off my thoughts about the color of his skin and redirects it to a patient we need to fix up.
Lifting up the syringe, I show her what I’m using so she can document it.
“You’re using a local?” she asks.
“I’m confident we’ll be able to get everything done without putting him under a general. He was pretty insistent on not going under.”
We don’t talk while I start fixing his wounds. She pulls her computer close, so she can observe and also keep updating our file notes. No doubt, there’s a fair bit to write up.
Though he starts to stir as we’re finishing up, his eyes are barely open, weighed down by the drugs.
The nurse is talking with him, but he moves her away.
He keeps trying to say something, but his speech is hard to understand because of the tube, and his words are slurred.
If I could scent him, maybe he wouldn’t need to struggle to speak; I’d be able to use his scent as a way of communicating.
The blocker I used took that off the table.
He mumbles something faint, in a language I can’t make out, before he loses the fight of staying awake.
Even with him out cold, there’s something about him. Like a peacefulness to his presence. Until the voice in my head pipes up again, this time taunting me about being a soft-hearted Omega and inserting romantic nonsense into any situation.