Chapter 27 #2
I look down at the patient, taking in her face for the first time, and my heart seizes in my chest. She’s a woman, yes, but she’s a teenager, a child, with pretty auburn hair and a Des Moines North Volleyball emblem on the side of her black shorts.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” I ask, leaning down so she can hear me.
I keep my tone as calm and soothing as possible despite the chaos around us.
“M-M-Morgan,” she finally grits out, grimacing with the effort.
"Morgan, I’m Dr. Carrington. There are going to be a lot of questions thrown at you, and I just need you to answer the best you can, okay?”
Her eyes flutter shut and a small tear squeaks out. “Where’s my family?”
I look to the paramedic for answers. “Parents were routed to Mass General, her two siblings are on their way, two minutes out.”
I keep my eyes glued to him, hoping to subliminally learn they’re going to be okay.
He looks down at Morgan who is focused on the tech at her side as they place an IV. “This one is the worst,” he says, pointing down at her.
My stomach lurches, and I swallow hard, pulling in a deep breath through my nose. You’re a doctor, Holly, I remind myself. Stay focused. As much as I want to kneel at her bedside right now and hold her as she cries, I have a job to do.
“Morgan,” I say again, leaning over. “Your family is receiving the best care right now. I promise to find out how they’re doing, okay? But I need you to tell me where it hurts the most.”
“My … my stomach.”
I do a quick assessment, gently running my hands over her stomach, not feeling any broken ribs. But when I move my hands lower, she winces, and I can feel how swollen and tender she is. “Right there?” I ask, and she nods her head.
“What’s her blood pressure?”
“Eighty over forty,” someone responds. “Heart rate one-thirties.”
I look over my shoulder, calling out for any tech who will listen.
“I want lab here immediately. The second they’re done, let's get her to CT. I don’t care what they say.
And call OR for a STAT consult.” The tech scrambles to the wall phone, and I look to the tech still standing nearby.
“Can you go check on room four? Make sure he’s okay? I’ll be here for a while.”
Once the tech runs off, I point to the ultrasound machine across the room. “Get me the ultrasound, please.” I have a feeling CT still won’t get us in, and I’m wondering if she needs to go straight to the OR.
One of the techs wheels over the cart. I turn on the machine, and lift Morgan’s shirt, doing my best to gently clean her stomach before squeezing cold gel onto it.
“Try to stay as still as possible, sweetheart.” I run the ultrasound over her stomach, confirming a fairly large space of fluid, likely blood, in her abdomen. I curse under my breath, pulling the wand back and wiping at her stomach with a clean towel.
“Dr. Ellison is here.”
I breathe a small sigh of relief that he’s here so quickly.
I’ve worked with Dr. Ellison my entire career, both as a resident and as a trauma doctor.
His bedside manner isn’t the worst, and he’s experienced and thorough while being cautious, which is what I want for her.
“Sixteen-year-old girl,” I tell him, taking a step to the side so he can step in.
“MVA, complaints of abdominal pain, CT is backed up, ultrasound shows fluid trapped in abdomen. Probable ruptured spleen.”
He looks at the ultrasound image still up on my screen, and in the hall behind him, I hear shouting, and one of my fellow doctors rushes past the room.
“Have her vitals been stable?” Dr. Ellison asks, and I turn my head back to the situation at hand. “Weak, but stable. She’s hypotensive and tachy, but still alert.”
He leans over the gurney, making sure that Morgan can see his face.
“Hi Morgan, I’m Dr. Ellison. Dr. Carrington has filled me in, and we’re going to take you to the operating room.
We’ll be able to take a deeper dive into what’s going on, but as it looks now, you’re bleeding into your abdomen, and we need to fix that.
” He doesn’t wait for her to answer, just stands and strips his gloves, already going to leave the room.
“Are her parents in the lobby? I’ll need consent. ”
I look from Morgan to him, and back to her before stepping away from the side of the bed.
With hushed words, I explain the situation, “Parents were involved with the accident and are at Mass General. She … she doesn’t have anyone here right now.
” I feel the words grow thick in my throat, and I blink rapidly, twisting my head away from Dr. Ellison so he doesn’t see.
“You okay, Dr. Carrington?”
I nod, stripping off my dirty gloves and gown. “Fine. Just get her to the OR now, please.”
He nods, looking at me for another moment before reaching for the wall phone.
***
What feels like hours later, I’m watching my second MVA patient get wheeled out of the double doors and to the OR. As soon as the swinging triage doors close, I’m met with silence.
A glorious, much-needed silence. My eyes burn as I vigorously rub my fists against my closed lids, cursing this awful day.
The only saving grace of the day is that I received word Morgan made it safely through surgery, and her parents were discharged from Mass General with only minor injuries.
The thought of them being able to meet her in recovery lessened some of the sting that comes with this job.
My stomach rumbles, and my bladder screams at me.
I check my watch, blinking rapidly when I realize it’s after eleven p.m. “Holy shit.” My shift was supposed to end at seven thirty, but with CT being backed up, it slowed our triage down, and it was a never-ending line of patients needing to be seen.
I wash my hands with slow, exhausted movements, my brain running through everything that I did today, wondering what I still need to finish. “Harry, fuck.”
I push through the double doors, quickening my pace toward room four.
I rip open the curtain, an apology on the tip of my tongue when I see it’s an elderly woman lying in the bed with her husband seated in the accompanying chair.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I must have entered the wrong room.
” I look at the whiteboard on the wall, confirming I’m in room four. “I’m … I’m sorry.”
I pull the curtain shut and walk a few paces down the hall, leaning back to look at the TV that shows patient rooms. My eyes scan once, and then scan again, and when I don’t see his name, I spin, grabbing the arm of the first person that walks by.
“What happened to my patient in four? Elderly man with headaches, I was waiting to rule out a stroke?”
She pauses for a moment, pinching her brows together. “The one that died?”
My word spins on its axis; my grip on her arm faltering. “What?”
She turns to face me fully, reaching to grab my arm now. “Wait, I could be wrong. Charlie,” she calls across to a coworker. “What was the name of the guy that we found unresponsive earlier?”
A shrill ringing fills my ears, and I blink rapidly, taking a step back so I’m out of her reach and I can lean against the wall. “Where?” I choke out. “Where is he?”
They both stand in front of me now with worried expressions written on their faces. “Dr. Carrington, are you alright?”
Charlie reaches a hand out to comfort me, and I whip away from him. “Where did he go?”
“Holding area,” he mutters with a grimace.
The holding area. Where we put patients who have passed away.
We shove them into a cold, sterile room until the morgue comes so we can clean the room they were in and fill it with another patient.
There’s no lingering goodbye, no time to respect who they were as a person because there’s always another one waiting.
Another trauma that needs our attention.
I push past the both of them, stumbling down the hall until I exit the ER. My vision blurs, but I bite the inside of my cheek, refusing to let a tear fall when there are other people around. When I reach the door that leads to the holding area, I pause.
I can do this, I remind myself. I need to do this.
With shaking hands, I reach for my badge, pulling it toward the key card lock that sits next to the handle.
Pressing the plastic to the wall, the solitary red light flips to green, and I hear a faint beep.
Inhaling a sharp breath, I curl my fingers around the handle, pushing down and leaning my shoulder against the door so it falls open.
The room is shrouded in darkness, but once I take a step in, the fluorescent lights flick on, and I grimace at the few gurneys lined up against one wall.
White sheets are tucked into the sides with colorful hand-sewn quilts covering each one.
I seem to forget that detail each time I lose a patient.
There’s a group of women who make blankets and donate them to the hospital.
Security covers their body with it so it’s less gruesome to wheel them through the halls or out to the parking lot.
With nearly silent steps, I force my feet in motion, instinct pulling me to the bed closest to the door. There’s a folder at the foot of the bed, and I reach a hand out, trembling as I flip it over to read Harry’s name.
The tears fall rapidly, one after the other they tickle my cheeks, as I fold down the blankets that cover his face, confirming what the paperwork already told me.
My knees buckle, and I stumble backward, moving until my back hits the cold concrete wall.
I let myself fall, sliding down until my butt hits the hard floor.
My legs are tucked up to my chest, arms wrapped around my legs as I rest the side of my head against my knee.
I can feel the tears soak my scrubs as my sniffling echoes through the otherwise quiet room. “I’m sorry, Harry.”