He'd seen them go so many times. So many times. Without knowing what the outcome would
be. Oncology. Genetics. Even the ICU. or just back out on the streets. Cardiology. Specialists,
their own doctors. To Mercy because their HMOs wouldn't authorize a stay at County. Too
expensive. Home to die, home to live alone, home to just get out of the damn hospital already.
MVA. GSW. v-fib. CBC, chem-7, x-ray, radiology. asystole, IV, CT. 3 units of O-neg, NOW! Exam 1, exam 2, curtain 1, trauma 2, suture room, SICU.
He'd yelled out all of those things to the nurses, sending his patients to various rooms. Determining their fate with just one shout to the nurses. Yell the wrong thing and you've got a flatliner. dead. all night, all day. Traumas. too many traumas come in and you could be there for three days straight. no sleep. coffee. caffine. coffee. anything. whatever you could get at the little cart outside the ER. or even worse, at doc's. doc magoos that is.
He sighed and got up from the surprisingly comfortable couch. surprisingly comfortable after 27 hours of standing and working. He found it harder to fall asleep each night and harder to wake up each morning. So he spent his days and nights at work on auto pilot. And on auto pilot you make a few mistakes. Only one had been fatal. And it could have happened to anyone. But even one was a lot for him. And it didn't happen to anyone. It happened to him.
He got up and slipped off to the roof, which seemed to be a favorite spot of the ER docs. He stared at Chicago spread out before him, and for once, instead of thinking of all the people he'd helped, of all the people happy and alive because of him, he thought of that one girl. She was five when he made the fatal mistake. She would never see her sixth birthday. She would always be five. And so he left the ER. He walked quietly, lest Kerry should see him and send him back to work past the end of his shift. Dodging gurneys and EMTs, traumas and people with too many questions, he left, into the cold Chicago air once more. Home to think about what he had become. To decide, once and for all, if he would wake up in the morning and come to Cook County General. Ever.
MVA. GSW. v-fib. CBC, chem-7, x-ray, radiology. asystole, IV, CT. 3 units of O-neg, NOW! Exam 1, exam 2, curtain 1, trauma 2, suture room, SICU.
He'd yelled out all of those things to the nurses, sending his patients to various rooms. Determining their fate with just one shout to the nurses. Yell the wrong thing and you've got a flatliner. dead. all night, all day. Traumas. too many traumas come in and you could be there for three days straight. no sleep. coffee. caffine. coffee. anything. whatever you could get at the little cart outside the ER. or even worse, at doc's. doc magoos that is.
He sighed and got up from the surprisingly comfortable couch. surprisingly comfortable after 27 hours of standing and working. He found it harder to fall asleep each night and harder to wake up each morning. So he spent his days and nights at work on auto pilot. And on auto pilot you make a few mistakes. Only one had been fatal. And it could have happened to anyone. But even one was a lot for him. And it didn't happen to anyone. It happened to him.
He got up and slipped off to the roof, which seemed to be a favorite spot of the ER docs. He stared at Chicago spread out before him, and for once, instead of thinking of all the people he'd helped, of all the people happy and alive because of him, he thought of that one girl. She was five when he made the fatal mistake. She would never see her sixth birthday. She would always be five. And so he left the ER. He walked quietly, lest Kerry should see him and send him back to work past the end of his shift. Dodging gurneys and EMTs, traumas and people with too many questions, he left, into the cold Chicago air once more. Home to think about what he had become. To decide, once and for all, if he would wake up in the morning and come to Cook County General. Ever.