The First Year
The first year resident on trauma, Steven Johnson, hated it when cops came in. It meant waking up the attending and that meant he would get an ass chewing. They had been working to stabilize this woman for over an hour. It was an auto vs. auto, full impact collision, so as far as trauma went, it was something they saw ten times a day. But because she was a cop, they were supposed to turn into miracle workers.
Not that he didn't appreciate what she did; saving lives, making the gritty city streets safe for the people, and all that jazz. He was supposed to be the same way. It was a noble profession. He didn't like telling anyone that they had lost a loved one, but it was especially difficult when you did it to a family who's loved one was truly a decent person.
She was beat up, that's for sure. They had cut her clothes off, the safest thing to do considering the extent of her injuries and thrown them into a corner. Now, part of his job was to catalogue the contents.
Steven hated nothing more than being the ER Trauma bitch, but it was part of the job. One day, he would run the place and it would be someone else's job to count pocket lint and write it out for the property sheet. He stuck his hand into shards of jeans. He pulled out a wallet. Typical. He opened it and thumbed through it. ID, credit card, insurance card, loyalty card to some sub shop he had never heard of, and $24.78. He wrote it all down. He found another pocket in the wallet and pulled out a wallet sized photo of a blonde. "Hot," he thought. There was one of the lady with a bunch of kids and a older guy. Her and an older woman, he guessed it was her mom, same facial features. He turned it over but there was nothing written on the back. He shrugged.
He shoved his hand into the back pocket of the jeans and pulled out a small notepad. He flipped it open. Just names and phone numbers. Some addresses, a name. He wrote it down on the property sheet. The third pocket had nothing, but the fourth? He shoved his hand deep to the bottom and felt a box. He pulled it out and looked. Ring box.
He tried to remember if she had been wearing a ring; he couldn't remember them cutting one off her, but that didn't mean they hadn't. They try not to do that if they can help it. He opened the box and looked down at a diamond ring. Wow, he thought. This cost some guy a pretty penny. He wondered suddenly why she hadn't been wearing it. Maybe she couldn't when she was working? That must have been why she had taken it off and carried it in the box. He looked on the inside of the ring, it was inscribed, even better. "Forever, Alex." Well, then, he was looking for Alexander.
The resident picked up her shirt and wrote it on the paper. Sighing, he shoved it all in the bag, but hesitated when it came to the ring. He knew that this stuff generally got locked up and was generally safe, but chances are the guy who gave this to her would come to see her. He'd probably want to know it was okay. He would probably feel better if he got it back. He walked back by the trauma room.
They really had done what they could—she was critical and she needed surgery. There was bleeding in her abdomen and nothing short of opening it would be able to address that. The others were still working around her. There was a chest tube on her right side, broken ribs, and she definitely needed an orthopedic consult on her leg. That would have to wait though. She was being prepped for surgery, which for him meant waiting for their resident to get his ass down to the ER and another hour of waiting writing up the paperwork and the notes.
Normally, he would be the one to tell the family about the prognosis, that depending on where the bleed was the only way to predict prognosis. He would tell them that the longer she was unconscious, the greater the risk would be for injury to her brain. He would tell them that her other physical injuries would continue to heal. The attending physician, king of the trauma unit, grabs the chart and stares at it, pulling together what he'll tell the family and friends.
They already knew the press was here—anytime they had the press the hospital became a high security prison. Patient's right's dictated that no one speaks about the injured officer, but public interest in the story didn't die until the full details were out. It was a delicate balance best left to the family. He couldn't wait for them to show up so they could make the decisions.
The two of them stormed down the hall as the Attending fires off questions. When he's satisfied he knows all the answers he swings the door open to the small family waiting room that's overflowing with cops.