chapter
six
The moment I saw them,my brain triaged the scene in a fraction of a second. Patient: male, late fifties, profound jaundice, diaphoretic, obvious distress. That was the medical problem. Then there were the two women. One, older, her face a mask of pale, frantic worry — the wife. The other, younger, with dark, intense eyes and a ramrod-straight posture that radiated coiled, controlled energy — the daughter, but something more.
She was a professional rescuer. Even if the “Summit County Fire Rescue” shirt she was wearing didn’t give it away, I'd seen that look a thousand times on nurses, doctors, and firefighters who found themselves suddenly on the other side of the stretcher; it was the look of someone used to being in charge, now thrust into a situation they couldn't control. And it was terrifying to them.
"Alright, Michael," I said, keeping my voice gentle but firm as I helped him into the wheelchair. "Let's get you inside and get you some help. My name is Jimmy. You're in the right place."
I pushed the chair through the double doors, the daughter — Izzy, I thought the wife had called her — walking so closebeside us she was practically a shadow. I led them straight back to Bay 4, one of our critical care rooms.
"Chloe, can you grab me a full set of vitals and get him on the monitor?" I asked, my voice calm. "Let's get a gown on him, too."
Chloe nodded and moved to the bedside with a new, quiet confidence I hadn't seen earlier in the shift. She'd been learning a lot over the past few shifts. I was proud of how well she was getting along.
I turned my attention to Michael — or Cap, as Izzy had called him in the car. His breathing was shallow, his teeth clenched against a wave of pain. "Cap, I need to get an IV started, draw some blood. Is one arm better than the other?"
He just shook his head, his eyes squeezed shut.
"Okay." I gently took his arm. His veins were good — strong and easy to find, a product of a life of hard work. I slid an 18-gauge needle in with practiced ease, the dark flash of blood confirming I was in. I drew a rainbow of blood tubes for the lab — a CBC, CMP, lipase, coagulation panel — everything the docs would need.
"Alright, we're in," I said, securing the line. "The doctor will be in to see you in just a minute. In the meantime, let's talk about getting some medicine for that pain."
"No," he rasped, his voice surprisingly firm. "No narcotics. I can handle it."
I stopped what I was doing and looked at him. It was a line I'd heard a hundred times, usually from men who equated pain with weakness. Standing by the gurney, Izzy's posture stiffened even more. She knew this argument, had probably had it before.
"Sir," I said, my voice soft but clear, meeting his pained, yellowed eyes. "With all due respect, I have no doubt you can handle it. I'm looking at a man who has probably handled more tough situations than I can imagine. But you don't have to. There are no medals for suffering in here. Your body is alreadyfighting a war; letting the pain win is just giving the enemy ground. Let us help you."
He stared at me, his breathing still shallow. I saw a flicker of something in his eyes — not defeat, but a weary kind of understanding.
"He's right, Michael," his wife, Margaret, said, her voice trembling as she stroked his hand.
He let out a long, slow breath that was half sigh, half groan. "Okay," he whispered.
"Alright." I turned to the medication station. "I'm going to get you a small dose of Dilaudid. It'll take the edge off while we wait for the lab work to come back."
I drew up the medication, my movements precise. As I pushed it slowly into his IV line, I watched the cardiac monitor. His heart rate, which had been racing at 130, slowly began to drift down. The tense lines around his eyes softened, the rigid set of his jaw relaxed. His breathing deepened. For the first time since he'd arrived, he looked comfortable.
I glanced over at Izzy. She was watching me, her expression unreadable, but the rigid, military bearing had eased. The sentinel was still at her post, but she was no longer braced for impact. Whatever her relationship to this patient — daughter, maybe, or someone equally important — the relief on her face as his pain subsided was unmistakable.
The next hour was a whirlwind of controlled activity. The doctor came and went, orders were placed, and Michael was scheduled for a CT scan. Through it all, Izzy stood her silent watch.
Finally, after the tech had wheeled him off to imaging, she and I were left alone in the quiet of the bay.
"Thank you," she said, her voice low. She was looking at the empty gurney, not at me.
"Just doing my job," I said.
"No," she said, finally turning to look at me. Her dark eyes were exhausted, but they held a fierce intelligence. "You spoke to him likea person, not just a patient. Not everyone does that."
"He deserves that respect," I said simply.
We stood in a comfortable silence for a moment. I could see the wheels turning in her head, the tactical mind trying to process a new, unfamiliar situation.
"This is going to be a long night," I said, breaking the silence. "A lot of waiting, a lot of information that might not make sense at first." I thought for a second, and then grabbed a pen and a blank patient label, scribbling my name and number on it. "Look, I know this is a lot to process, and hospital-speak can be confusing. If you have questions later, or just need to vent … seriously, I'm awake this time of day anyway. It's no problem. Us first responders have to look out for one another."
She took the label, her calloused fingertips brushing against mine. She looked at the number, then back at me, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. "Thank you," she said again, her voice softer this time. She tucked the label carefully into the pocket of her jeans.
