“But it’s apparently a five hour wait,” she argues, gesturing to a sign at the nursing desk. “And I just have a cut on my arm, which the nurses have already bandaged, so I don’t see the point?—”
“You might need stitches,” the nurse puts in. “And the triage note says you fainted.”
What? Ally failed to mention that bit when she texted me.
“Ally, you can’t leave,” I repeat. As arguments go, it’s not the most eloquent, but it’s clear and to the point.
“I didn’t actually faint,” Ally explains. “I was a bit dizzy at triage because my arm hurt, so I had to sit down. But they said my vital signs were fine, and I feel a lot better now.” She picks up her backpack and stands. “Do I have to sign something?”
The nurse—Kelly, according to her ID badge—looks up at me nervously. “Uh, Dr. Malone said you can’t leave.”
Kelly seems like a very sensible nurse.
Ally sighs, but before she can argue the point, the ER doctor appears.
“Hey, Drew,” Dr. Sophie Kaminsky says curiously. We don’t get a lot of neurosurgical consults in the low acuity zone, and she’s clearly wondering what I’m doing here. “Did we ask you to see someone down here?”
“No,” I admit. “Ally’s my girlfriend.”
Sophie’s eyebrows fly up. “Oh. I see.”
“She fell off her bike and cut her arm,” I explain. “And she apparently fainted at triage. And now she wants to leave, but I’ve told her . . .” I hesitate for a moment. Maybe I’ve been approaching this the wrong way.
I take a deep breath and turn back to Ally. “I’maskingyou to stay and get checked out. Please. For my peace of mind.”
“Oh.” Ally looks taken aback. “Um, okay. I guess.”
“Great,” Sophie says, turning to the nurse. “I think Ally’s next to be seen, right Kelly?”
“What?” Kelly says. “Oh, right, yes.”
“Perfect,” Sophie says. “You can put her in a cubicle. She’ll need an ECG and cardiac labs. And prep a suture tray, please.”
“Of course,” Kelly replies, smiling at Ally. “You can come with me.”
I pick up Ally’s backpack and we follow Kelly to one of the curtained cubicles.
“You can hop up on the stretcher,” Kelly says. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
As soon as the curtain closes behind her, Ally turns to me.
“Drew, we cut the line,” she whispers nervously. “There’s no way I was next to be seen.”
“Sure you were. They triage by urgency, Ally.”
“But Drew?—”
“Okay, you might be right,” I interrupt. She’s definitely right, and the optics aren’t great, but if I had to do this over I wouldn’t change a thing. “It’s professional courtesy, Ally. Sophie knows that if someone in her family needed a neurosurgeon, I’d help her out.”
“But a bunch of people out there heard what happened,” Ally says. “What if someone complains?”
“No one will complain,” I reassure her. “But if someone does, I’ll deal with it.” And I’ll suggest the complaint be escalated to the VP of Clinical Operations, who called me directly when his mother had a head injury last year.
“Okay,” she says reluctantly. “How did you know I was here?”
“I saw you in the ER waiting room this morning, but at first I assumed you were someone else. When you texted that you fell off your bike, I put it together.”
She nods. “But it’s Friday. Aren’t you supposed to be running a clinic?”
