Читать книгу Crisis: Blue - J. A. Davis - Страница 11

Chapter 5

The thunder and lightning persisted all day, but the torrential downpour had begun to subside. The emergency generators continued to provide the basic electrical needs, but much of the hospital remained dimly lit. It was five o’clock in the afternoon, the floodwaters that had engulfed the streets for hours were starting to recede, and, like clockwork, a sea of humanity was beginning to migrate toward Carencrow Regional’s emergency room. The ER waiting room was already filled to capacity. The floors were wet, and the pungent smell of damp, soiled clothing permeated the air. The sound of the thunder was soon displaced by a deafening roar of general conversation mingled with coughing, sneezing, vomiting, and the ever present moans and groans.

As the emergency room’s first line of defense, the triage nurse sat undefended in the waiting room, fully exposed to the good, the bad, and the ugly. The registered nurse/target assigned a level of acuity to each patient given their respective complaint, thus controlling when they would be seen. It was the usual daily battle, with each patient who checked in at triage deliberately attempting to appear more sick than the next, thinking they would be rushed beyond the locked doors and into the emergency room. Tempers flared as the nearly dying were rushed to the back, ahead of others who had checked in earlier. Arguments erupted with increasing frequency. Soon the triage nurse would become the focus for verbal abuse and seething glares.

Debby Flat, RN, was the triage nurse this fateful day. Debby was incredibly tenacious and extremely tough. After fifteen years of brutal combat in the ER, she no longer felt the arrows of insult penetrate her middle-aged body. Perhaps it was the years of drinking Crown Royal that dulled her sensitivity to pain. Beyond the locked doors of the waiting room lay the emergency room, which was one large space divided into two sections, separated only by a large, rectangular counter. Behind the counter sat the emergency room coordinator and the admitting clerks. It was the emergency room nerve center. To the right of the counter were the even-numbered trauma rooms. To the left were the odd-numbered rooms. These rooms were separated from the counter by walkways congested with crash carts, stretchers, and various other obstacles. The ER was manned by two teams, each consisting of a physician, two nurses, and one tech. Each team worked twelve-hour shifts and was responsible for twelve rooms.

The emergency room coordinator, Sheila “Queen of the Jungle” Mafuse, RN, was on duty. She was responsible for assigning each patient to a specific room, whether they were coming in the front door or the ambulance entrance, located at the other end of the ER.

This afternoon all twenty-four rooms and the walk-in clinic were full. Four extremely sick patients were in a holding pattern, parked on ambulance stretchers in the hall, waiting for rooms to be vacated. All lay patiently with the EMS personnel in tow, watching the mayhem.

Dr. Rex “Rrrrex” Bent; Patricia “Trissy” Bent, RN; Wanda “the Splint” Bennet, RN; and Terry “Flashback” Foxxman were in trauma room eight, trying desperately to revive a young drowning victim. The nine-year-old had been swept away during the floods while standing on a boat dock, mesmerized by the raging Cajun River. The normally placid river had turned violent with the torrential downpour. The river level rose instantaneously, and the sheer volume created so much turbulence that the water appeared to be boiling. Without question, the force of the water, coupled with the mass of large, floating debris striking the thin pilings, was more than the small, rickety dock could withstand. It collapsed, launching the child downstream. By some miracle he was found quickly. His lifeless, hypothermic body was brought to the emergency room. EMS had intubated the child at the scene; one paramedic was frantically doing chest compressions while the other pumped oxygen into his lungs.

“How long had he been down?” Rex asked as he looked at the young man’s pupils, which were fixed and dilated.

“He was submerged for at least twenty minutes, Dr. Bent. By the time we got to him, he was in asystole,” Demetrius, one of the seasoned paramedics, replied. CPR continued while the young man was shifted onto the hospital stretcher.

“Bag him,” Rex said as he listened to the boy’s lungs. He could hear the distinctive snap and crackle of fluid-filled alveoli opening and slamming shut.

“Stop CPR,” Rex ordered as he felt for a pulse. There was no pulse, no blood pressure, no spontaneous respirations, and the patient remained in asystole. “Resume CPR,” Rex requested. “Demetrius, what have you given the young man so far?” Rex asked.

“He’s had four amps of epinephrine and one amp of bicarb IV push,” Demetrius responded.

“Rex, his rectal temperature is eighty-five degrees Fahrenheit,” Trissy said after inserting a probe to record the patient’s core temperature.

“Get the bear hugger, warm blankets, and warm fluids. Give him another amp of epinephrine IV push,” Rex ordered, surveying the young man’s grossly discolored body. He had sustained multiple cuts and abrasions, presumably due to swift moving debris. For all intents and purposes the boy was dead, but no one can legally be declared dead unless they are “warm and dead.” The ER team continued life-saving procedures, injecting the chemicals necessary to restart his lifeless heart. All efforts proved unsuccessful, and, after forty-five minutes, the code was called.

“Time of death, seventeen-forty-five,” Wanda announced.

“Great job everyone,” Rex said to the dejected team, commending their valiant efforts before walking to the room where the young man’s parents, brothers, and sisters were anxiously waiting. Upon receiving the horrific news, all became hysterical. The yelling, screaming, and crying that ensued could be heard throughout the emergency department. The sounds were hauntingly gut-wrenching and, as always with tragedies such as this one, unforgettable.

Suddenly, full power was restored to the hospital. As soon as the lights came back on, all hell broke loose. An eighteen-year-old male, unresponsive and slumped over in a wheelchair, was being rushed toward Debby at a dangerous speed. The man pushing the wheelchair yelled, “Help! My brother’s been shot!”

Debby flung the doors to the emergency room open and shouted, “Gun shot!” She shoved the frantic brother aside, grabbed the wheelchair, and rushed toward the back.

“Trauma room ten,” Sheila shouted.

A new victim, Tyroneous Washington, had arrived. As he was being rushed toward room ten, Tyroneous started to slowly slither out of the wheelchair. Given the critical nursing shortage, the usual atmosphere of semi-controlled chaos had now crossed the threshold into the realm of dangerous and uncontrolled madness. As his wheelchair came to an abrupt halt, Tyroneous was almost hurled onto the floor. Trissy, Wanda, and Foxxman were already in the room. Together they quickly hoisted Tyroneous’s limp body and tossed him onto the stretcher. His clothes were being cut off by Foxxman, while Wanda placed a blood pressure cuff on his arm, Debby checked for a pulse, and Trissy searched for a vein in which to start an IV. As soon as Rex entered the room, the unresponsive patient suddenly came to life! He began writhing in pain—a relatively good sign, considering the alternative of being pulseless and breathless.

“Where were you shot? Where were you shot?” Debby demanded as she quickly surveyed his body, finding no blood or bullet holes.

“Popeye’s,” Tyroneous uttered, with what appeared to be his last breath.

“Look here, Einstein! I ain’t the police, and I ain’t your mama. Where on your body did the bullet hit?” Debby asked very slowly and deliberately.

“Popeye’s,” Tyroneous responded again as he opened his eyes and looked around the room.

Everyone in the room appeared shocked. Their jaws dropped simultaneously in disbelief. Tyroneous was butt naked. Even his little drumstick was exposed, and the only visible trauma was a small abrasion on his abdomen.

“Let’s roll him and check his back,” Rex ordered.

“Hey, what you do-in’, man?” Tyroneous complained, resisting the emergency staff’s efforts.

“Just as I suspected: no evidence of any wounds,” Rex growled.

“I’ve been shot,” Tyroneous announced with a sense of pride.

“No Tyroneous, you weren’t,” Foxxman informed the young victim of a probable drug deal gone bad. Tyroneous immediately crossed his arms and pouted.

“I’m ready to shoot the scrawny bastard after all the theatrics!” Debby threatened before turning around and heading back to triage.

“Obviously the bullet didn’t have his name on it, or maybe it struck him in the head and bounced off,” Wanda concluded as she, Rex, and Trissy left the room in disgust.

“That sorry turkey buzzard!” Rex said as he sat down to write a note on Tyroneous’s chart. “Foxxman, get him a gown and let him sit in the hall while I finish his paperwork.”

“Will do.”

“Well, I ain’t eatin’ at Popeye’s again, that’s for damn sure!” Wanda confessed in a slow, Louisiana drawl, leaving everyone in the ER laughing uncontrollably. What a cast of characters. Trissy was a feisty nurse of German descent. She and Rex had been shacked up for several years before taking the plunge. Wanda was short and built like an Ewok, but you couldn’t let her stature fool you. She always told you exactly what she thought and never minced her words. Wanda was nicknamed “the Splint,” after insisting upon wearing food-speckled Velcro wrist splints throughout a recent pregnancy, and beyond. Rounding out the team was Terry Foxxman, a fifty-year-old Army medic and Vietnam veteran who always enjoyed telling war stories, usually centering around Mama-san and his escapades in the local social clubs. Anytime he was startled by a loud noise, “Flashback” Foxxman would wrap his hands around his head, squat down and yell, “Incoming!” These flashbacks seemed to come with increased frequency and severity as the fine line dividing reality from these vivid images of his past continued to blur.

Dr. Emanuel “Boom Boom” Whitherspoon had the odd-numbered rooms and had been so busy fighting his own battles during the day that he had not had the opportunity to shoot the breeze with his comrade-in-arms, Rrrrex. Boom Boom was a handsome fifty-year-old black man with salt and pepper hair and a mustache. He was meticulous in his dress and very methodical in the manner in which he managed his patients. His favorite form of relaxation was cruising the Caribbean with his wife. While onboard these large luxury liners, he could not help but notice the voluptuous young ladies strutting about in their thongs. Upon sharing these stories with his fellow staff members, his guidance proved inspiring. “Wear dark sunglasses,” he relayed with pride, “and never let your wife see your head move.” What especially caught his eye was the way their cheeks bounced while strutting about the deck, and, much to everyone’s delight, he was quite talented at reproducing that motion. Upon request he would smile, raise his chin high in the air, and move his head back and forth, as his wrists and hands moved rhythmically to the gluteal beat, all the while chanting in a sing-song voice, “Boom, baba boom, baba boom, baba boom.”

“Boom Boom, I feel as if our position has been overrun,” Rex declared to his mentor. “This has been the shift from hell! Just look at the toll it has taken on my nurses. It’s as if they’ve been on the Corregidor Death March.” Wanda and Trissy looked at Rex in disgust, the fatigue more than apparent on their faces.

“Bite me, Rrrrex!” Wanda declared without remorse. Trissy laughed, showing her appreciation for Wanda’s scud-missile response.

“Stay focused, Rrrrex, and don’t take it personally. ObamaCare is on the way,” Boom Boom responded with the wisdom of an ancient Asian warrior.

“ObamaCare is just going to make the situation worse!” Rex surmised, suddenly finding himself overcome by the need to vent.

“You know, this ER has become extremely dangerous, given the high volume and level of acuity. If it weren’t for the shortage of doctors, nurses, and techs, all would be well,” Rex shared with just a hint of sarcasm.

“No doubt,” Wanda replied.

“What in the Sam Hell is this hospital going to do when security in the United States is breached and terrorism returns to our shores? There will be mass casualities,” Rex complained, as the hours of frustration finally came to a boil.

“Stay focused, Rrrrex,” Boom Boom replied, while continuing to work.

“Stand back, Wanda! I’ve seen that look in Rrrrex’s eyes,” Trissy warned her close friend.

“I thought Carencrow Regional was out of control when those bastards from Colombia HCA owned the hospital, but since the greedy GeeHad gained control, this work environment has become unbearable,” Rex argued as his coworkers looked on, nodding in agreement.

“This ain’t been no magic carpet ride, that’s for damn sure!” Wanda felt compelled to add.

“I tell you, it’s a plot with the Wicked Witch of the South, Ms. Teresa Talon, RN, executing this hospital’s evil agenda. If her father had not been president of this hospital so many years ago, she would’ve never become the emergency room director of nursing,” Rex retorted.

“I must admit you have a good point, Rrrrex. She has absolutely no common sense, and I know for certain that she can’t even start an IV!” Wanda said, adding a little more fuel to the fire.

“That’s a fact,” Trissy contributed.

“That self-serving tyrant sits in her glass office all day, oblivious to what is going on in the ER. If she’s not busy criticizing those who work for her, she’s preoccupied with plotting the demise of anyone who appears to be a threat to her little dictatorship! Hell, she’s as dangerous as a great white shark, but as useless as tits on a bull!” Rex concluded.

“Stay focused Rrrrex,” Boom Boom said, although he chuckled, knowing that the facts were undeniable.

“Now let me get this straight. Are you proposing a mutiny?” Wanda asked as she placed her immobilized, splint-laden hands on her hips.

“Sounds like a mutiny to me. Rrrrex, consider me onboard,” Trissy added in support. Suddenly, Boom Boom became keenly aware of a large, shadowy movement to his left. He quickly turned and lifted his head.

“Oh, Christ!” Boom Boom uttered, watching Mushroom Head steam toward him. Undoubtedly, she was under full power. Only the sound of her thunder-thighs rubbing together escaped the vacuum left in her wake.

“Run deep and silent, Rrrrex,” Boom Boom whispered, then winked as he canted his head and rolled his eyes to the left in a most peculiar manner.

“Boom Boom, are you having a seizure?” Rex asked, attempting to analyze his friend’s bizarre facial expressions.

Boom Boom dropped his head in frustration, realizing that his subtle message had not been received. Rex looked beyond Boom Boom and immediately saw Mushroom Head as she walked past, heading toward Teresa’s office.

“Damn!” Rex mumbled as he quickly turned away from GeeHad’s evil, on-rushing goon.

“Having a seizure?” Boom Boom teased.

“So, what the hell. I miss one diagnosis.”

“You must be joking!” Sheila suddenly shouted out loud before hanging up the phone.

“Rex, Debby called from triage. Several of the hospital managers are passing out cokes and brownies to those in the waiting room, even to the patients who presented with nausea and vomiting! It appears that several patients complained about the waiting time, and management felt that this was the way of soothing frayed nerves,” Sheila reported.

“That was a rather bright idea. You see, management really is insanely humane,” Rex criticized.

“I’m sure the surgeons would be pleased to know that anyone they may be taking to the operating room tonight has a full belly,” Boom Boom replied sarcastically, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Rex, Mean and Evil overheard your conversation criticizing our illustrious ER nursing director and were seen heading toward Teresa’s office. They look like they’re up to no good,” Trissy whispered.

Mean and Evil were Boom Boom’s nurses. These ladies were believed to be Siamese twins joined at the head and the chest. It was rumored that shortly after birth, they were separated and neither was left with a brain or a heart. They would sell their souls for the death and destruction of a coworker, for either promotion or pleasure. These two took such great pride in their monikers that no one used their real names. Both were in their late forties, obese, pear-shaped, and ill-tempered chain-smokers. Alone, each was dangerous, but together they acted synergistically, creating a destructive force of unimaginable magnitude. Rex and Trissy were soon to find themselves down and out, courtesy of Mean and Evil.

“They were probably heading out the ambulance door for one of their countless cigarette breaks, or to graze on some dead carcass lying in the grass,” Rex replied, without giving the buzzards a second thought.

“Boom Boom, you must keep a tighter rein on those feathered reprobates,” Rex suggested after being made aware of Mean and Evil abandoning their post for the tenth time this shift.

“Normally I would Rex, but those two birds are so ornery that I’m afraid of the repercussions,” Boom Boom replied honestly as he began tying up loose ends before his relief appeared.

“By the way, are we still on for dinner tonight, Trissy?” Rex asked as he gazed into her sparkling eyes.

“Absolutely, of course. After a day like today, the last thing I want to think about is cooking. I can already taste the Cosmopolitan,” Trissy replied as she licked her lips.