“Try to stay as still as possible, sweetheart.” I run the ultrasound over her stomach, confirming a fairly large space of fluid, likely blood, in her abdomen. I curse under my breath, pulling the wand back and wiping at her stomach with a clean towel.
“Dr. Ellison is here.”
I breathe a small sigh of relief that he’s here so quickly. I’ve worked with Dr. Ellison my entire career, both as aresident and as a trauma doctor. His bedside manner isn’t the worst, and he’s experienced and thorough while being cautious, which is what I want for her. “Sixteen-year-old girl,” I tell him, taking a step to the side so he can step in. “MVA, complaints of abdominal pain, CT is backed up, ultrasound shows fluid trapped in abdomen. Probable ruptured spleen.”
He looks at the ultrasound image still up on my screen, and in the hall behind him, I hear shouting, and one of my fellow doctors rushes past the room.
“Have her vitals been stable?” Dr. Ellison asks, and I turn my head back to the situation at hand. “Weak, but stable. She’s hypotensive and tachy, but still alert.”
He leans over the gurney, making sure that Morgan can see his face. “Hi Morgan, I’m Dr. Ellison. Dr. Carrington has filled me in, and we’re going to take you to the operating room. We’ll be able to take a deeper dive into what’s going on, but as it looks now, you’re bleeding into your abdomen, and we need to fix that.” He doesn’t wait for her to answer, just stands and strips his gloves, already going to leave the room. “Are her parents in the lobby? I’ll need consent.”
I look from Morgan to him, and back to her before stepping away from the side of the bed. With hushed words, I explain the situation, “Parents were involvedwith the accident and are at Mass General. She … she doesn’t have anyone here right now.” I feel the words grow thick in my throat, and I blink rapidly, twisting my head away from Dr. Ellison so he doesn’t see.
“You okay, Dr. Carrington?”
I nod, stripping off my dirty gloves and gown. “Fine. Just get her to the OR now, please.”
He nods, looking at me for another moment before reaching for the wall phone.
***
What feels like hours later, I’m watching my second MVA patient get wheeled out of the double doors and to the OR. As soon as the swinging triage doors close, I’m met with silence.
A glorious, much-needed silence. My eyes burn as I vigorously rub my fists against my closed lids, cursing this awful day. The only saving grace of the day is that I received word Morgan made it safely through surgery, and her parents were discharged from Mass General with only minor injuries. The thought of them being able to meet her in recovery lessened some of the sting that comes with this job. My stomach rumbles, and my bladder screamsat me. I check my watch, blinking rapidly when I realize it’s after eleven p.m. “Holy shit.” My shift was supposed to end at seven thirty, but with CT being backed up, it slowed our triage down, and it was a never-ending line of patients needing to be seen.
I wash my hands with slow, exhausted movements, my brain running through everything that I did today, wondering what I still need to finish. “Harry, fuck.”
I push through the double doors, quickening my pace toward room four. I rip open the curtain, an apology on the tip of my tongue when I see it’s an elderly woman lying in the bed with her husband seated in the accompanying chair. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I must have entered the wrong room.” I look at the whiteboard on the wall, confirming I’m in room four. “I’m … I’m sorry.”
I pull the curtain shut and walk a few paces down the hall, leaning back to look at the TV that shows patient rooms. My eyes scan once, and then scan again, and when I don’t see his name, I spin, grabbing the arm of the first person that walks by. “What happened to my patient in four? Elderly man with headaches, I was waiting to rule out a stroke?”
She pauses for a moment, pinching her brows together. “The one that died?”
My word spins on its axis; my grip on her arm faltering. “What?”
She turns to face me fully, reaching to grab my arm now. “Wait, I could be wrong. Charlie,” she calls across to a coworker. “What was the name of the guy that we found unresponsive earlier?”
A shrill ringing fills my ears, and I blink rapidly, taking a step back so I’m out of her reach and I can lean against the wall. “Where?” I choke out. “Where is he?”
They both stand in front of me now with worried expressions written on their faces. “Dr. Carrington, are you alright?”
Charlie reaches a hand out to comfort me, and I whip away from him. “Where did he go?”
“Holding area,” he mutters with a grimace.
The holding area. Where we put patients who have passed away. We shove them into a cold, sterile room until the morgue comes so we can clean the room they were in and fill it with another patient. There’s no lingering goodbye, no time to respect who they were as a person because there’s always another one waiting. Another trauma that needs our attention.
I push past the both of them, stumbling down the hall until I exit the ER. My vision blurs, but I bite the inside of my cheek, refusing to let a tear fall when there are otherpeople around. When I reach the door that leads to the holding area, I pause.
I can do this, I remind myself. Ineedto do this.
With shaking hands, I reach for my badge, pulling it toward the key card lock that sits next to the handle. Pressing the plastic to the wall, the solitary red light flips to green, and I hear a faint beep. Inhaling a sharp breath, I curl my fingers around the handle, pushing down and leaning my shoulder against the door so it falls open.
The room is shrouded in darkness, but once I take a step in, the fluorescent lights flick on, and I grimace at the few gurneys lined up against one wall.
White sheets are tucked into the sides with colorful hand-sewn quilts covering each one. I seem to forget that detail each time I lose a patient. There’s a group of women who make blankets and donate them to the hospital. Security covers their body with it so it’s less gruesome to wheel them through the halls or out to the parking lot.
With nearly silent steps, I force my feet in motion, instinct pulling me to the bed closest to the door. There’s a folder at the foot of the bed, and I reach a hand out, trembling as I flip it over to read Harry’s name.
