“Pizza and a couple of quiet beers back at mine?” Noah throws out as I get dressed. “Ritter’s not flying out until four.”
“Yeah, sure,” I say. “Count me in.”
Everett whoops and slaps me on the back. “Our boy’s back.”
I shake my head with a laugh. “Shut up.”
Tuesday isday two of my five-week clinical placement. It’s been a quiet shift. Jack, Melissa, and I are doing inventory on the ambulance when the call comes in for the private preschool in Beckford.
The wordspaediatric seizurecauses my chest to tighten. Anything to do with children usually does.
We’re rolling out within a minute with the lights flashing but the siren off—dispatch says the child has a history of epilepsy, and they’re post-ictal, breathing, and conscious. I run through the checklist of what we need to look for in my head. Airway, breathing, glucose, past medical history.
When we arrive at the preschool, a grey brick building next door to St Mary’s primary school, a staff member is waiting at the entrance, her face pale as she points us towards one of the rooms.
Inside, the room has been half-cleared; the tables have been moved out of the way and the tiny chairs are stacked against the wall. A little boy sits on a mat near the window,legs stretched out in front of him. A teacher sits behind him, not touching him, but just there for support should he need it. His eyes are open but unfocused.
“You take the assessment,” Jack says, while Melissa gets some details from another educator.
“Hey, mate,” I say gently, crouching to the little boy’s level and checking the medical bracelet on his wrist, confirming his epilepsy. “My name’s Blake. Can you tell me your name?”
He blinks slowly, mouth opening and closing as if he’s trying to answer me.Silent seizure,I think. Absence or focal.
“Baxter,” his teacher says quietly from behind him. “His name is Baxter.”
I smile at the little boy. “Hi, Baxter. We’re just going to do a couple of tests. You’re doing well.”
Jack gets the monitor ready while I do a quick assessment. His airway is clear and his breathing is steady. When I touch his skin, it’s warm and a little clammy. His pupils are sluggish but equal. I check his blood sugar, which is normal. There’s no obvious injury.
“We’re not too sure how long the seizure lasted exactly,” the educator says in a shaky voice, “but it was longer than usual, and I wasn’t sure what to do.”
“You did the right thing,” I assure her as Jack makes some notes. “Hey, Baxter, buddy. How are you feeling?”
His eyes finally find mine, fear reflecting back.
“It’s okay,” I say with a soft smile. “You’re okay.”
The director tells us his mum’s been called and will meet us at the hospital. He’s out of immediate danger, but he’ll need to be observed. We lift him onto the stretchercarefully, and as we wheel him out, the other kids peer around the adults blocking us from their view.
As Melissa loads him into the ambulance, Jack and I stop at the office to gather some other information when a small voice cries my name, and I let out a surprised yelp as a tiny blonde barrels into me, wrapping her arms around my legs.
“Hey, Sprout,” I say, patting her little head.
“You know her?” The educator’s tone is wary, but I’m glad she’s being cautious. There’re too many shady fuckers out there willing to take advantage of little kids.
“She’s my housemate’s sister,” I explain as I squat down in front of Tinsley. “No need to worry, Tins. Your friend is going to be okay.”
She nods, a tear slipping down her cheek.
“Do you want to talk to Rett? Will that make you feel better?”
She nods again.
I look up at the educator. “Is it okay if I give him a quick call?”
She hesitates, her gaze darting between me and Tinsley, then sighs. “Quickly.”
I slip my phone out of my pocket and call Everett, praying he’s not in class right now.
