‘Patient is a forty-eight-year-old male,’ says one of the doctors, ‘struck by a car travelling at approximately 20mph– bullseye damage to windscreen. C-spine immobilised. Spontaneously breathing but with reduced level of consciousness with a GCS of 12.’
Again, I feel so helpless, useless, as I hear them discussing Angus in a language that’s difficult to understand.
‘Bruising over the right side of his chest. Tachycardic at 120 with a blood pressure of 110 over 60. He has a dislocated ankle with poorly palpable pulses.’
‘Can I stay with him?’ I ask.
They either don’t hear me or are understandably too distracted to answer, but as they haven’t said no…
‘I’m sorry, but we need to look after him now,’ says one of the doctors, taking me to one side as Angus is wheeled away into resus, which I know from Milla is where the sickest patients in an emergency department go. Doctors and nurses are rushing around in scrubs and all I can see is endless monitoring equipment attached to the wall, beds and patients and beeping noises coming from machines presumably keeping them alive. ‘There’s a waiting room for relatives and family on this floor, round the corner. When I have any news, I’ll come and find you.’
‘He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?’ I can’t help asking yet again, but please,pleasegive me hope.
‘We’ll do our very best for him,’ he says, which isn’t anywhere near enough for me.
Yet the frightening truth is he probably doesn’t know.
28
‘After you’d gone the coppers arrived,’ Laurie tells me, flustered when she finds me in the relatives’ waiting room. She pulls out her earphones. ‘They want to speak to you.’
I hadn’t even thought about the police, or the driver, and how desperate they must feel. None of this was anybody’s fault. Laurie paces the room. ‘You heard anything from his wife?’ she asks, twisting a strand of her short hair round and round.
‘She’s on her way,’ I say, as the doctor I spoke to previously enters the room. He glances at Laurie.
‘We’re together, it’s fine,’ I explain, before urging Laurie to sit down next to me. ‘Is there any news?’
‘We’ve done an initial assessment.’
‘Is he all right?’ Laurie asks, tapping her foot up and down, up and down.
I can tell from his grave expression, and from the heaviness in the room, that Angus is far from all right. ‘We’re worried about some of Angus’s injuries, and need to do a full scan, top to toe.’
‘What do you mean? What are you worried about?’ I continue, dreading the answer.
‘The pain in his neck and spine,’ he replies, confirming my fear that Angus might never walk again. ‘We need to do further tests to see if there is damage to the spinal cord. I’m not saying there is,’ he’s quick to reassure us, ‘but we need to be certain. He also has severe bruising in his chest and he’s having trouble breathing.’
‘Poor Angus,’ Laurie says, breathing heavily herself.
‘He’s also not fully responsive, but let’s face it, he’s had a knock to the head, and morphine for the pain so it might just be concussion, but we do need to rule out any other possibility. We also suspect he has a fractured and displaced ankle.’
‘What can you do about that?’ I ask, not even knowing what it is, but it sounds bad.
‘Surgery may be required, and we need to realign the ankle, which basically means pulling it straight.’
‘Ouch.’ Laurie inhales deeply, wincing with me.
‘If we’re happy with the position, and there’s no break, we’ll put his ankle in a cast and let it heal naturally. But we can’t do any of this until we know exactly what’s going on.’
I know the doctor is being so reasonable and patient with my questions, but I want more specifics. As if he can read my mind, he says, ‘I’m afraid, at this stage, we don’t know the extent of his injuries.’
I nod. ‘How long will it take?’
‘The scan doesn’t take long, ten or so minutes, and someone will look at the results immediately. He’s a priority patient. We’ll come and let you know as soon as we can.’
‘You promise?’ Laurie blurts out.
‘I promise,’ he says. We are left alone, imagining the worst.
