Author's note: I was going to re-write the end of "Freefall" to give Romano
a decent death scene. Then I said, "Screw it." If I'm going to re-write
what happened, I'm gonna give myself what I, and hopefully some of you
readers, really want: for Romano to not be dead. So, here it is. It's not
a happy story. But, hey, he's still breathing at the end!
*****
Robert Romano sagged against the wall of the elevator as the doors closed. The doors formed a welcome barrier between himself and that thing out there, but he couldn't quite get the image of it out of his mind. Worse was the sound - thumpa-thumpa-thumpa - still vaguely audible even inside the elevator. The sound of rotors slashing at air merged with the sound of his own pulse hammering in his ears, just like it had that night. He felt himself falling again - that sick feeling of lightness as his racing heart expelled all the blood from his body. But this time, there was a wall to hold him up. Something solid. Feeling it behind him grounded him enough that he was able to focus on the elevator controls. Almost blindly, he punched the button that would take him down. Away. To safety.
As the elevator descended, however, it seemed to shrink. Its walls were entirely too close together and there wasn't enough air inside to satisfy his rapid respiration. Some part of his mind clinically admonished him that there was plenty of air and that hyperventilating certainly wouldn't help matters. That part was easily overwhelmed by the rest of him which needed to be outside NOW, gulping fresh oxygen.
The elevator plodded along, unaffected by Robert's urgency. 'Oh God -- What if the elevator stops and somebody gets on?' He knew that he would lose it then, though he wasn't quite sure what 'losing it' entailed - throwing up? passing out? crying? As long as he was by himself with nobody to lean on, he would do what he always did: press on. But if somebody familiar appeared right now and looked him in the eyes, he knew that he would fall apart. He would reach out for them like a lifeline. But it wouldn't be strong enough . . .
This worry distracted him only briefly from his claustrophobia, as the elevator finally arrived on the ground floor. The moment between the elevator chime and the doors whooshing open seemed interminable. He was out of the elevator before the doors were fully open.
Now, of course, he was surrounded by people. But none of them really looked at him or connected with him, so he regarded them as obstacles rather than as problematic saviors. He waded through the crowd near the elevator, then, as the crowd thinned in the ER, he sped up almost to a run. The damned door to the ambulance bay wouldn't open fast enough. Pounding on the button wouldn't help, but what the hell - it was something to do.
Finally, he was free. Outside. It was safe to . . . what? Have a meltdown with ample oxygen and reasonable privacy? 'No,' he told himself, 'just ride it out; this isn't the first time.' He inhaled deeply and felt a twinge of pain in his side and a tightness across his chest. 'Calm down - you're not going to have a damn heart attack right in front of the ER.'
After a minute or two the buzz of whirring rotors inside his head died down and the waves of panic began to subside. 'Auditory hallucinations - there's a good sign,' he mused sarcastically to himself. He became aware of people and vehicles nearby, and wanted to be away from them. He felt far too shaky to go back inside, but walked toward the building intending to lean against the wall and collect himself.
Robert was a few feet away from the wall when he heard it - a loud popping sound overhead. He turned around and looked up to see an exploding fireball several stories above. Then the helicopter emerged from the explosion like something out of a nightmare . . . His nightmare. Flames engulfed its body, eerily illuminating every detail. The rotors spun erratically as the thing plummeted - sharp tongues of fire, cutting and burning their way toward him.
He stood rooted to the spot. Moving was not just impossible, but inconceivable. Not breathing or blinking, he stared up at it, transfixed with horror.
He was still staring at it seconds later when it hit the ground, 8 or 10 yards from where he stood. It was not conscious thought, but reflex, that finally brought his arm up to protect his face as the impact set off shockwaves and launched flying debris. He felt himself thrown up and back, and finally, mercifully, after his head connected with something hard, he felt nothing at all.
A few hours later . . .
Robert slowly became aware of familiar hospital sounds. His head was throbbing and his left shoulder ached. Out of habit he reached for his left arm, but found nothing there. Opening his eyes, he groaned softly as the light exacerbated his headache.
'OK. I'm hospitalized. Again. Fuck. What happened?' As he contemplated this question, he realized that the room he was in was not a regular hospital room, but one of the exam rooms in the ER. With that, everything came back to him. Or enough, anyway. He closed his eyes, trying unsuccessfully to make the vision of the flaming chopper go away.
The way his head felt, he knew that getting up was not the brightest thing to do. But he needed to move, to walk, to do something to distract himself. He got out of bed, and, when the room stopped spinning, he made his way out of the exam room and into the ER proper.
The place was swamped. He could tell intuitively that this was the winding- down-period, not the high point of the crisis. Patients were in the hallways and in triage; doctors and nurses moved through the controlled chaos assisting them. Robert felt himself drawn toward the ambulance bay, almost against his will. He really didn't want to look at the twisted monstrosity that he knew lay outside, yet he continued in that direction. He got close enough that he could see the smoking ruin - the flames were out by now - through the glass doors, when someone distracted him, grabbing his arm and shoving a chart in front of him.
It was one of the new residents - the useless one. What was his name? Morris. Robert wanted to tell him to go away, but he suddenly felt too dizzy and weak for coherent speech. There was a vacant chair nearby, so he sat in it. Morris continued talking, oblivious to the fact that his companion was on the verge of collapse. 'Yep. There's the future of medicine.' Robert almost giggled as he tried to focus on what the resident was saying.
He quickly sobered as he realized what Morris wanted: Romano's signature on a procedure that was obviously inappropriate given the patient's condition. Explaining this to the fool seemed like an insurmountable task. He managed to shake his head (ow! bad idea), and horsely whisper something brilliant like "Nuh uh," while pointing toward the contra-indicating information on the chart. Unsurprisingly, Morris didn't get it. He continued talking at Romano, his voice not loud but grating.
For the first time ever, Robert was glad to see Pratt. The younger doctor quickly set Morris straight on the procedure, and admonished him irritably, "Next time, find an attending who DOESN'T have a head injury to sign off for you."
Since Pratt was taking care of the situation, Robert let his mind wander. His gaze found its way back to the glass doors, and settled there. He was vaguely aware of Pratt talking to him, but his brain felt paralyzed, sucked in by the view outside. Everything else faded out of his consciousness.
"Dr. Romano, you have a concussion. You need to go back to the exam room and lie down." Pratt's tone was firm but not harsh.
Sam approached, followed by Abby. "Oh, there he is," Sam said, then addressing Romano sharply, "Where do you think you're going? You're supposed to be in observation."
Romano didn't respond, so Pratt tried again, louder, "Dr. Romano, can you hear me? You have to go back to observation."
Nothing. His eyes were open, but vacant. He stared away from the others with a blank expression on his face. Finally, Abby walked around and crouched down so that her face was in Robert's line of vision, blocking his view of the doors. "Dr. Romano," she said gently, holding out her hand, "Come with me, OK?"
Robert nodded almost imperceptibly, then accepted the hand she offered and pulled himself to his feet. He swayed for a moment, causing Abby to look around for a wheelchair, then steadied himself. He didn't resist as she took his arm and led him slowly back toward the observation area.
"He's altered and roaming. Can I put him in restraints?" Sam asked Pratt eagerly.
Pratt was sure she was joking. Well, almost sure. "Wouldn't one restraint do? Heh heh. Nah, he'd kill us when he comes to."
By the time Robert and Abby arrived back at the observation room, his mind had cleared a bit, but exhaustion was taking over. Lying down seemed like a really good idea. Robert sat on the bed and went to kick off his shoes. Then he realized that he wasn't wearing any, just socks underneath scrubs. He glanced around the room.
"Your arm is over there on top of the cabinet, along with your lab coat and other stuff," Abby supplied. "We had to take it off to check if your shoulder was separated. It's not - just a sprain and some contusions."
Robert nodded, then winced as he lay down. Abby handed him some ibuprofen, then a cup of water, saying, "Of course, we can't give you the good drugs on account of the concussion, but this should help."
There was a knock at the door. Abby turned to see Sam poking her head in. Sam asked hurriedly, "You 'Doctor Abby' or 'Nurse Abby' now?"
Abby grinned, looked at her watch, and responded, "Take your pick."
Sam pleaded, "I've REALLY got to go home, so if you're covering . . ."
"Nurse Abby it is!" Abby announced with mock-perkiness. She heard a soft laugh from behind her, and turned to find her patient with his eyes closed but a trace of a smirk on his lips.
Sam waved and departed. Abby switched off the main room light, saying, "You know the drill - you can sleep, but I'm gonna come wake you up in a little while." She walked toward the door and was about to turn off the small light over the sink when a sound from the bed stopped her.
"Uh, don't . . . uh . . ." Romano began awkwardly, then trailed off.
"I'll just leave this one on, OK?" Abby offered. Robert nodded, the anxiety in his eyes diminishing.
"Don't be crabby when I wake you," Abby tossed out playfully as she exited the room.
Robert was appalled by the fact that the prospect of being alone in the dark with his own thoughts had caused him to panic. He was grateful that Abby had not asked him if he wanted her to stay. Mortified, he realized that he might have said "Yes." Still uneasy, he wasn't sure if he wanted to sleep. But it was a moot point; he was fading fast. He wondered vaguely why Abby was being nice to him, given that he generally treated her like shit.
'Must be a chick thing,' was his last lucid thought as he drifted into fitful sleep.
To be continued . . .
***** Author's plea for help: TPTB gypped us out of a Romano-recovery arc. So, I want to give him one - this is the first chapter. However, I am aware of my strengths and weaknesses as a writer. I'm good at dialogue and characterization, not so good at plot. So, I would appreciate your feedback and suggestions. Thank-you!
*****
Robert Romano sagged against the wall of the elevator as the doors closed. The doors formed a welcome barrier between himself and that thing out there, but he couldn't quite get the image of it out of his mind. Worse was the sound - thumpa-thumpa-thumpa - still vaguely audible even inside the elevator. The sound of rotors slashing at air merged with the sound of his own pulse hammering in his ears, just like it had that night. He felt himself falling again - that sick feeling of lightness as his racing heart expelled all the blood from his body. But this time, there was a wall to hold him up. Something solid. Feeling it behind him grounded him enough that he was able to focus on the elevator controls. Almost blindly, he punched the button that would take him down. Away. To safety.
As the elevator descended, however, it seemed to shrink. Its walls were entirely too close together and there wasn't enough air inside to satisfy his rapid respiration. Some part of his mind clinically admonished him that there was plenty of air and that hyperventilating certainly wouldn't help matters. That part was easily overwhelmed by the rest of him which needed to be outside NOW, gulping fresh oxygen.
The elevator plodded along, unaffected by Robert's urgency. 'Oh God -- What if the elevator stops and somebody gets on?' He knew that he would lose it then, though he wasn't quite sure what 'losing it' entailed - throwing up? passing out? crying? As long as he was by himself with nobody to lean on, he would do what he always did: press on. But if somebody familiar appeared right now and looked him in the eyes, he knew that he would fall apart. He would reach out for them like a lifeline. But it wouldn't be strong enough . . .
This worry distracted him only briefly from his claustrophobia, as the elevator finally arrived on the ground floor. The moment between the elevator chime and the doors whooshing open seemed interminable. He was out of the elevator before the doors were fully open.
Now, of course, he was surrounded by people. But none of them really looked at him or connected with him, so he regarded them as obstacles rather than as problematic saviors. He waded through the crowd near the elevator, then, as the crowd thinned in the ER, he sped up almost to a run. The damned door to the ambulance bay wouldn't open fast enough. Pounding on the button wouldn't help, but what the hell - it was something to do.
Finally, he was free. Outside. It was safe to . . . what? Have a meltdown with ample oxygen and reasonable privacy? 'No,' he told himself, 'just ride it out; this isn't the first time.' He inhaled deeply and felt a twinge of pain in his side and a tightness across his chest. 'Calm down - you're not going to have a damn heart attack right in front of the ER.'
After a minute or two the buzz of whirring rotors inside his head died down and the waves of panic began to subside. 'Auditory hallucinations - there's a good sign,' he mused sarcastically to himself. He became aware of people and vehicles nearby, and wanted to be away from them. He felt far too shaky to go back inside, but walked toward the building intending to lean against the wall and collect himself.
Robert was a few feet away from the wall when he heard it - a loud popping sound overhead. He turned around and looked up to see an exploding fireball several stories above. Then the helicopter emerged from the explosion like something out of a nightmare . . . His nightmare. Flames engulfed its body, eerily illuminating every detail. The rotors spun erratically as the thing plummeted - sharp tongues of fire, cutting and burning their way toward him.
He stood rooted to the spot. Moving was not just impossible, but inconceivable. Not breathing or blinking, he stared up at it, transfixed with horror.
He was still staring at it seconds later when it hit the ground, 8 or 10 yards from where he stood. It was not conscious thought, but reflex, that finally brought his arm up to protect his face as the impact set off shockwaves and launched flying debris. He felt himself thrown up and back, and finally, mercifully, after his head connected with something hard, he felt nothing at all.
A few hours later . . .
Robert slowly became aware of familiar hospital sounds. His head was throbbing and his left shoulder ached. Out of habit he reached for his left arm, but found nothing there. Opening his eyes, he groaned softly as the light exacerbated his headache.
'OK. I'm hospitalized. Again. Fuck. What happened?' As he contemplated this question, he realized that the room he was in was not a regular hospital room, but one of the exam rooms in the ER. With that, everything came back to him. Or enough, anyway. He closed his eyes, trying unsuccessfully to make the vision of the flaming chopper go away.
The way his head felt, he knew that getting up was not the brightest thing to do. But he needed to move, to walk, to do something to distract himself. He got out of bed, and, when the room stopped spinning, he made his way out of the exam room and into the ER proper.
The place was swamped. He could tell intuitively that this was the winding- down-period, not the high point of the crisis. Patients were in the hallways and in triage; doctors and nurses moved through the controlled chaos assisting them. Robert felt himself drawn toward the ambulance bay, almost against his will. He really didn't want to look at the twisted monstrosity that he knew lay outside, yet he continued in that direction. He got close enough that he could see the smoking ruin - the flames were out by now - through the glass doors, when someone distracted him, grabbing his arm and shoving a chart in front of him.
It was one of the new residents - the useless one. What was his name? Morris. Robert wanted to tell him to go away, but he suddenly felt too dizzy and weak for coherent speech. There was a vacant chair nearby, so he sat in it. Morris continued talking, oblivious to the fact that his companion was on the verge of collapse. 'Yep. There's the future of medicine.' Robert almost giggled as he tried to focus on what the resident was saying.
He quickly sobered as he realized what Morris wanted: Romano's signature on a procedure that was obviously inappropriate given the patient's condition. Explaining this to the fool seemed like an insurmountable task. He managed to shake his head (ow! bad idea), and horsely whisper something brilliant like "Nuh uh," while pointing toward the contra-indicating information on the chart. Unsurprisingly, Morris didn't get it. He continued talking at Romano, his voice not loud but grating.
For the first time ever, Robert was glad to see Pratt. The younger doctor quickly set Morris straight on the procedure, and admonished him irritably, "Next time, find an attending who DOESN'T have a head injury to sign off for you."
Since Pratt was taking care of the situation, Robert let his mind wander. His gaze found its way back to the glass doors, and settled there. He was vaguely aware of Pratt talking to him, but his brain felt paralyzed, sucked in by the view outside. Everything else faded out of his consciousness.
"Dr. Romano, you have a concussion. You need to go back to the exam room and lie down." Pratt's tone was firm but not harsh.
Sam approached, followed by Abby. "Oh, there he is," Sam said, then addressing Romano sharply, "Where do you think you're going? You're supposed to be in observation."
Romano didn't respond, so Pratt tried again, louder, "Dr. Romano, can you hear me? You have to go back to observation."
Nothing. His eyes were open, but vacant. He stared away from the others with a blank expression on his face. Finally, Abby walked around and crouched down so that her face was in Robert's line of vision, blocking his view of the doors. "Dr. Romano," she said gently, holding out her hand, "Come with me, OK?"
Robert nodded almost imperceptibly, then accepted the hand she offered and pulled himself to his feet. He swayed for a moment, causing Abby to look around for a wheelchair, then steadied himself. He didn't resist as she took his arm and led him slowly back toward the observation area.
"He's altered and roaming. Can I put him in restraints?" Sam asked Pratt eagerly.
Pratt was sure she was joking. Well, almost sure. "Wouldn't one restraint do? Heh heh. Nah, he'd kill us when he comes to."
By the time Robert and Abby arrived back at the observation room, his mind had cleared a bit, but exhaustion was taking over. Lying down seemed like a really good idea. Robert sat on the bed and went to kick off his shoes. Then he realized that he wasn't wearing any, just socks underneath scrubs. He glanced around the room.
"Your arm is over there on top of the cabinet, along with your lab coat and other stuff," Abby supplied. "We had to take it off to check if your shoulder was separated. It's not - just a sprain and some contusions."
Robert nodded, then winced as he lay down. Abby handed him some ibuprofen, then a cup of water, saying, "Of course, we can't give you the good drugs on account of the concussion, but this should help."
There was a knock at the door. Abby turned to see Sam poking her head in. Sam asked hurriedly, "You 'Doctor Abby' or 'Nurse Abby' now?"
Abby grinned, looked at her watch, and responded, "Take your pick."
Sam pleaded, "I've REALLY got to go home, so if you're covering . . ."
"Nurse Abby it is!" Abby announced with mock-perkiness. She heard a soft laugh from behind her, and turned to find her patient with his eyes closed but a trace of a smirk on his lips.
Sam waved and departed. Abby switched off the main room light, saying, "You know the drill - you can sleep, but I'm gonna come wake you up in a little while." She walked toward the door and was about to turn off the small light over the sink when a sound from the bed stopped her.
"Uh, don't . . . uh . . ." Romano began awkwardly, then trailed off.
"I'll just leave this one on, OK?" Abby offered. Robert nodded, the anxiety in his eyes diminishing.
"Don't be crabby when I wake you," Abby tossed out playfully as she exited the room.
Robert was appalled by the fact that the prospect of being alone in the dark with his own thoughts had caused him to panic. He was grateful that Abby had not asked him if he wanted her to stay. Mortified, he realized that he might have said "Yes." Still uneasy, he wasn't sure if he wanted to sleep. But it was a moot point; he was fading fast. He wondered vaguely why Abby was being nice to him, given that he generally treated her like shit.
'Must be a chick thing,' was his last lucid thought as he drifted into fitful sleep.
To be continued . . .
***** Author's plea for help: TPTB gypped us out of a Romano-recovery arc. So, I want to give him one - this is the first chapter. However, I am aware of my strengths and weaknesses as a writer. I'm good at dialogue and characterization, not so good at plot. So, I would appreciate your feedback and suggestions. Thank-you!