Hey there.
First and foremost, thank you all for the overwhelming feedback last time. You don't know how much I appreciated your comments and kind words.
Secondly, this was supposed to a much longer chapter. I felt the strong urge to post something today, so while the second half of the chapter isn't finished yet, this part is, so I decided to just go for it. It ends on a bit of a cliffhanger, which I usually try to avoid, but I hope you enjoy it regardless of its brevity.
Thank you all for your continuous support of this story, especially to Floopdeedoopdee for putting up with me and my annoying personality.
Lakeshore Hospital's emergency room was swarmed with people. Patients and their relatives, nurses, doctors and at least a dozen paramedics all gathered around and clogged up the tight space of the central admission area. Phones buzzed vigorously, to be answered in clipped and cryptic messages that only the staff could make sense of. Questions, orders, and patient-related information as well as files were passed along or bellowed over the incessant murmur to be heard by whomever it concerned with the recipients hurrying off in one direction or another to take care of the masses in need of medical attention.
Cause of the upheaval were a shooting in the Near South Side and a multiple pile-up involving a transit bus on Lakeshore Drive brought on by the dreadful road conditions, which had kept the hospital busy with an influx of patients all morning on top of the usual madness in the brutal Chicago winter months. While the most critical cases had been handled at this point, leaving just the milder ones to be dealt with, the ER staff was still only beginning to get the situation under control.
Amidst the organized chaos, there was one lone figure who couldn't be bothered with the flurry of activity around him, though. Hunched over one of the computers mounted to the admission desk, Dr. Arata was deeply immersed in the medical records of his patient, starting by working his way through the file Lakeshore Hospital had accumulated on him over the years as he waited for the VA medical center to grant him access to their records on former Army Ranger Sergeant Jay Halstead.
Despite Nurse Isabel mentioning earlier that the detective was a frequent flyer, David hadn't expected the young man's file to be so massive. The sheer number of visits to the ER in just the last two years were impressive – and quite concerning too. Over a dozen incidents requiring ambulatory treatment for numerous sprains, a few stitches here and there and other seemingly insignificant injuries, and four hospitalizations for concussions, fractures, a stab wound, and a gunshot wound just under six months ago. Chicago was a dangerous city, even more dangerous for first responders trying to protect its citizens, there was no denying that, but even for an officer of the law, the kid seemed a bit too injury prone, a certain reckless streak evident in that.
The injuries sustained in the recent years weren't pertinent to his current ailments though, and neither did they provide the surgeon with answers to the burning questions regarding the back injury Halstead had incurred overseas. It became obvious rather quickly that those answers wouldn't be found in Lakeshore's archives, so as soon as the mail came through, he abandoned those in favor of the records forwarded by the VA. Some of the files were copies from hospital stays in Afghanistan. About a handful from Kabul and Kandahar listed treatment for smoke inhalation, second-degree burns, dehydration and malnourishment, a heat stroke, a bullet graze to the leg, a few other minor injuries. Injuries that weren't life-threatening but outlined the life of a soldier who had not just seen an awful lot of action but had experienced firsthand all the kinds of unpleasantries and horrors war had to offer.
Nothing, however, fleshed out just how harrowing his patient's deployment really must have been as the reports from Landstuhl Regional Medical Center, the military hospital in Germany that most American soldiers were flown to when crucially harmed whilst fighting on the frontlines. Caught in an IED explosion that had killed an entire convoy of army rangers and left only a handful, including one Sergeant Jay Halstead on the brink of death, David's patient had been brought to LRMC as soon as he'd been stable enough for transport. The kid had spent two and a half months in the medical facility, the first of which he'd been in a medically induced coma to give his body time to heal, followed by another two weeks of drifting in an out of consciousness only to wake up paralyzed from the waist down.
Apart from that, the list of injuries was long, covering almost every inch of his body, every type of injury imaginable – from a concussion to retrograde amnesia, from torn ligaments to dislocations and fractured bones, from soft tissue damage, burns and penetrating shrapnel wounds to internal as well as spinal injuries. The list of records of the multitude of diagnostic procedures, surgical and therapeutic measures taken to keep a gravely wounded soldier alive, to treat and eventually rehabilitate him was even longer, requiring the expertise of specialists from all kinds of medical fields. Dr. Arata was mostly interested in one of them, but to find what he was looking for, the sections that were crucial to his patient's current predicament, he was forced to skim through the many pages and leave out other equally as interesting parts explaining some of the kid's psychological and behavioral characteristics and responses. But reading the rest of the file would have to wait.
Maybe it was for the best. Just scanning the nearly hundred pages was difficult enough, some of the keywords of what the Army veteran had been through were hard to stomach even for the surgeon. Especially with the remaining ambiguity, the vagueness the records ended with. Nine, almost ten agonizing weeks of intensive medical care in a renowned military hospital, and yet, even upon discharge from the facility, they hadn't been able to give a solid prognosis of whether Sergeant Jay Halstead would make a full recovery from the injuries he had suffered. The future of a young man in his early twenties who may or may not face lifelong disability in huge parts depended on the treatment he would receive once he made it back stateside.
The final three pages of the medical report from LRMC recommended an extensive pallet of aftercare instructions and stressed the importance of continuous follow-ups with specialists and physical therapists. However, as Dr. Arata scanned the rest of the forwarded documents, records of such check-ups were nowhere to be found. In fact, there was only a shocking measly five pages in the otherwise massive file that were from the VA hospital, dismissing the kid with a prescription for physical therapy and slightly stronger than over-the-counter pain medication. And when Halstead had visited again six weeks later by the advice of his physical therapist who had expressed tremendous concern over his client's discomfort had been brushed off with a referral to his primary physician should he still experience those a month from then. The lack of care shown to a man who had nearly given his life for this country was truly appalling.
David couldn't shake the terrible gnawing feeling that something had been overlooked in the sloppy, no, irresponsible reassessment by the VA hospital, something of utmost gravity. And his instincts told him that whatever that something was, was causing his patient so much agony and distress now, there was no other explanation for it.
With dogged determination, the surgeon threw himself back into the lengthy records and files from LRMC, scouring the pages. He reread all the relevant sections about his patient's back injury much more carefully, taking the time to decipher the additional scrawled handwritten notes attached to the reports more closely and studying the images with a keen eye in his search for the missing details that would clue him in – and sure enough, he dug gold. If he felt any triumph over finally getting the answers, he'd been looking for though, it was short-lived. Because this was the kind of treasure that he wished he'd found a lot sooner. Essentially, it was the kind of horrifying treasure no doctor ever wished to find in one of their patients.
Knowing that time was of the essence, Dr. Arata didn't allow himself to fully let his findings sink in, he immediately called out, "Nurse Isabel,", his strained voice auguring ill. The head nurse in question fleetingly glanced over from where she was standing just a few feet away, then back at the overbearing mother of a five-year-old with a scraped knee she'd been trying to console for the past five minutes. Glad to have a reason to get away from the helicopter mom, she quickly excused herself from the impossible woman who refused to understand the meaning of the word 'emergency' and joined the surgeon by the computer. Sensing her presence beside him, David didn't even bother look up, just got straight to the point. "Is Detective Halstead in imaging yet?"
Isabel glanced at the watch clipped to the breast pocket of her scrubs, calculating how much time had passed since she'd last checked in on the young man. She'd stopped by his room a few times after the initial examination, first helping him change into a gown – an arduous and agonizing process for the police officer – and then accommodating him with additional pillows and a blanket to make him more comfortable, which he'd voiced his deep gratitude for. Roughly ten minutes ago, she'd informed him that he was next in line for the CT and MRI, and although he seemed relieved, drugged up on heavy medication as he was, he hadn't been able to hide the veil of fear and trepidation that had only grown over the course of the last two hours. It was about time he received whatever treatment he so desperately needed. "He was taken upstairs five minutes ago, should be prepped for the MRI as we speak," she replied. "Why, what's –"
Dr. Arata's head snapped up in alert, shoulders tensing and jaw locking with the movement. "Call them immediately," he bellowed, interrupting whatever Isabel was about to ask, and the urgency in his tone and words had the nurse reach for the phone and already dialing the familiar number before the doctor even opened his mouth to bark out the rest of his orders. "Tell them to stop the MRI right now and go straight for the CT instead. Under no circumstances is Detective Halstead to have an MRI." There was a dourness to the surgeon's voice, along with a rare smidgen of panic, neither of which Isabel could remember ever hearing from him before. She knew then and there that whatever David had found was much more serious than either of them could have anticipated in their initial exam, and she couldn't help but feel the dread building within her.
The shrill screech of the overprotective mother from before broke through her thoughts, replacing her worry with a sudden surge of boiling rage. It was people just like that woman who made her job that much harder and took valuable time away from patients in dire need of medical attention. Patients like Jay Halstead in examination room four who had had to wait in the ER for close to eight hours at this point and whose scans had been delayed multiple times, not solely but at least in parts due to people who believed the entire world revolved around them and only them. For a moment, Isabel thought about snarling exactly that at the obstinate woman, but resisted the urge at last second. Instead, she bit down hard on her irritation, ignoring the hysterical protests and insults thrown at her as she waited for radiology to pick up.
Her eyes traveled over to Dr. Arata, the doctor in turn watching her intently, anxiously awaiting her signal. A concerned frown and overall grim expression were etched onto his features, betraying how affected he was by the detective's medical history, and the longer it took for radiology to pick up, the deeper the furrows of concern became. When two minutes later the call still remained unanswered, Isabel shook her head apologetically. David allowed himself to close his eyes for a brief moment, releasing an airless breath. Rubbing a frustrated hand over his face, he stood up abruptly, ready to push himself through the crowd of medical personnel. The last thing the nurse heard was a string of expletives followed by a growled, "I'm going upstairs. Kid's been through enough already. There's no way I'll let him be tortured even more under my watch."
Let me know what you think. Any ideas what it could be that the doctor is so anxious about?
