I do not own Emergency! or any of its characters. This was just an idea that came to me while listening to Sherrie Austin's "Streets of Heaven", and I figured I'd write it down. Don't worry, I haven't abandoned "Heart Of Dixie". It's just a little tough to write, that's all.
My baby. My little girl. The doctor's word play over and over in my head. Traumatic brain injury. Internal injuries. Emergency surgery. 20% chance of survival. 20% chance of survival?! As soon as those words left the doctor's lips, I screamed. I couldn't contain myself anymore. I collapsed to the floor, sobbing. My baby girl, lying unconscious in a treatment room, with only a 20% chance of ever waking up again. A nurse helps me up, leading me through a doorway to a smaller waiting room and a couch. I'm all alone here, right now. My husband is across the country, trying to catch a flight home. My parents are long gone. All of my close friends are busy or live too far away. So I'm alone, waiting for some news about my daughter.
When I answered the phone, the first thing I heard was: "Ma'am, your daughter has been placed in protective custody by the sheriff's department, in order to be given medical treatment. We request that you come to Rampart Emergency Hospital as soon as you are able." I was speechless. I hung up the phone and walked straight to my car. The 5 minute drive was a blur. At the emergency entrance, I was met by a sheriff's deputy. "Ma'am, your daughter was a victim of a hit-and-run vehicle accident on the corner of 6th and Wesson. 9-1-1 was called by an eyewitness. We placed her in protective custody when it became apparent that immediate medical treatment was necessary. We will return her to your custody, effective immediately. A doctor should be out shortly to give you an update on her condition." With that, the deputy turned and walked away. For the second time in 30 minutes, I was speechless. My baby. She must have been walking home from the bus stop. The bus stop was only two blocks from our house. Two blocks! I had always picked her up from the bus stop. When she started second grade, she begged her father and I to be allowed to walk to and from the bus by herself. We agreed, eventually. Now I know that I will always regret that decision.
A doctor walks into the room where I'm sitting. His nameplate reads "Joe Early, MD," along with some other credentials that mean nothing to me. He is followed by a nurse, the same one that picked me up off the floor earlier. Her nameplate says "Miss D. McCall, RN". Dr. Early steps over to me. From the look on his face I can tell that the news he brings is bad. He says, "We did all we could." I have never heard words sound that sad. I can't think. I can't breathe. My baby girl, gone forever. For the second time, I crumple. I hear the doctor leave, and for the second time, I am picked up by the nurse. She hugs me as I sob like a child.