I instruct several nurses to work on removing what they can but on my second loop around the bay, it grows clear that he needs surgical intervention and he’s swept up to my floor after Snow ducks in to get his details.
There’s a couple who are fine at a glance, lamenting about their luck and survival until the woman collapses and I find severe bruising on her abdomen. She’s also swept straight up to surgery with me in tow.
Forty minutes later, she’s stable and recovering in a quiet room with her husband while I return to trauma one and alleviate more of the stress.
The truck driver died on impact and the news is met in a variety of ways by his victims.
Some are angry and curse him, drawing the attention of the cops, while others are sympathetic to his passing and the ice that caused the crash.
One by one, each patient is seen at least once by me, and I pass Snow multiple times as our paths intersect.
Patient numbers are replaced with names, and correct medicines are adjusted as medical records are updated and attended to.
Thanks to Snow, we avoid giving one child a medicine to which he’s allergic.
Gradually, the chaos begins to calm and as the crowd thins within trauma one, something catches my attention.
A man sits on one of the beds with blood pouring from a head wound, his eyes glassy and his chest spasming every so often.
I don’t recognize him so after disinfecting my hands, I head over and greet him with a flat smile.
“Sir? Have you been seen by a doctor?”
He grunts, and his glazed eyes briefly lock onto mine.
Taking the light from my pocket, I gently catch his chin and briefly shine the light in his eyes. “Sir, can you tell me your name?”
He winces and tries to avoid my light, but I keep it up and quickly check his pupils.
Then he opens his mouth and the strong stench of beer breath hits me.
“M’fine, it’s nothing,” he grunts. “I fell.”
“You fell? Were you in a car crash at all? On the highway?” Satisfied by his pupils’ reactivity, I turn his head and examine the split stretching from his forehead all the way into his hair.
Blood weeps out steadily and a shadow of a bruise spreads across his temple.
He sways back and forth, although given his apparent drunken state, it’s impossible to tell at a glance the cause for his instability.
“I wasn’t driving, you tell them that,” he slurs, throwing one hand toward the cops. “I wasn’t even in my car! Who said I was? They’re liars! I wasn’t driving!”
“Sir—”
“Xander?”
I glance over my shoulder at one of the paramedics and grunt in greeting.
“I brought him in. Dude fell off the top floor of Bailey’s Bar and cracked his head open on the floor. Owner called us.”
“Right. Thanks.” A drunk accident is easier to handle. Turning back to the patient, I snap my fingers and regain his attention. “Sir? I’m going to get someone to look after you, okay? We’ll give you something for the pain and to sober you up and go from there, okay?”
“Doesn’t hurt,” he grumbles, brushing my touch away.
“It will.” After ensuring he responds to all other stimuli, I assign him a doctor and return to the desk with what little energy I have.
It’s long past midnight and the urge to sleep is finally creeping up at the back of my mind.
Poor Auriela is going to have to feed my cats again.
