20:1
U nder the influence of alcohol, people do and say things they would never dream of when sober. We see this demonstrated every day in the ER. Sadly, these actions cannot be undone, nor can these words ever be unsaid. Wine is indeed a mocker.
The voices behind the curtain of room 2 had been quiet enough at the beginning. The mother and father of our fifteen-year-old patient had arrived in the department and had just entered the cubicle. They were checking on their son, asking how he was, making sure he was okay.
EMS had brought Johnny to the ER after he had been involved in a minor auto accident. He had recently received his learner’s permit, and it seems he and a couple of friends had clandestinely taken one of the family cars out for a spin. One of the older boys had managed to procure two six-packs of beer, and off they went.
It was three o’clock on a warm May afternoon, and it wasn’t long before the beer was consumed. The group decided to tour several neighborhoods near Johnny’s home, with him woozily at the wheel. He failed to negotiate a sharp turn in Forest Hills Estates and went on to carve a new driveway through an azalea bed. Then he smasheda large, concrete birdbath before finally wedging the sedan between two pine trees.
Johnny had banged his forehead on the steering wheel. It was nothing serious, just a few bruises and a small laceration that would need to be repaired. When he tried to exit the car, he found the driver’s door firmly jammed by one of the trees. Looking around, he realized his friends were nowhere to be found. They had managed to climb through one of the back windows and had taken off.
Through the fog of his five beers, the young man was beginning to understand his plight. He shuddered as he looked up through the shattered windshield of his father’s car. There, on the front steps, stood the lady of the house. She was in her mid-sixties, wearing a floral housedress and a navy-blue apron. She stood stone still, staring at the wreckage of her yard, her fists angrily planted on her hips.
Johnny just shook his head, slumped in the seat, and waited. Within minutes, the police and EMS had arrived.
The voices behind the curtain were becoming a little louder, a little more agitated. It seemed to mainly be the father, but occasionally we could hear the son as well.
“What…! Who were…No, you just hold on…!” A few words and phrases carried across the department. Outbursts and unintelligible pieces of sentences, but clearly the temperature in room 2 was rising.
Amy Conners looked up from her logbook. “You might need to go check on things in there,” she said to me, tilting her head in the direction of the voices. “Think I should call Security?”
“No, we won’t need that,” I assured her. “They’ll calm down in a minute. But I’ll go over and have a few words with them.”
I was reasonably confident in my assessment of the situation. I had briefly spoken to Johnny’s parents when they arrived in the ER. They seemed calm enough, though obviously concerned. His father was a professional of some description and was dressed in a business suit. His mother was tall, slender, and very quiet, letting her husband ask the questions for the two of them.
As I made my way to room 2, the sounds coming from behind the curtain took an ominous turn. The distance was only a matter of a few steps. But in the moments it took to cross that brief space, I clearly heard the father yelling at Johnny and Johnny responding with slurred expletives. Then came the sounds of scuffling, of the stretcher being pushed against the wall, and the grunts of two men struggling with each other. Then a woman’s scream. And silence.
“Hold on here!” I demanded, pulling the curtain aside and stepping into the room.
I will never forget the bizarre and troubling scene played out before me. Johnny’s father stood nearest me, his fists clenched by his side, his hair tousled and his tie
U nder the influence of alcohol, people do and say things they would never dream of when sober. We see this demonstrated every day in the ER. Sadly, these actions cannot be undone, nor can these words ever be unsaid. Wine is indeed a mocker.
The voices behind the curtain of room 2 had been quiet enough at the beginning. The mother and father of our fifteen-year-old patient had arrived in the department and had just entered the cubicle. They were checking on their son, asking how he was, making sure he was okay.
EMS had brought Johnny to the ER after he had been involved in a minor auto accident. He had recently received his learner’s permit, and it seems he and a couple of friends had clandestinely taken one of the family cars out for a spin. One of the older boys had managed to procure two six-packs of beer, and off they went.
It was three o’clock on a warm May afternoon, and it wasn’t long before the beer was consumed. The group decided to tour several neighborhoods near Johnny’s home, with him woozily at the wheel. He failed to negotiate a sharp turn in Forest Hills Estates and went on to carve a new driveway through an azalea bed. Then he smasheda large, concrete birdbath before finally wedging the sedan between two pine trees.
Johnny had banged his forehead on the steering wheel. It was nothing serious, just a few bruises and a small laceration that would need to be repaired. When he tried to exit the car, he found the driver’s door firmly jammed by one of the trees. Looking around, he realized his friends were nowhere to be found. They had managed to climb through one of the back windows and had taken off.
Through the fog of his five beers, the young man was beginning to understand his plight. He shuddered as he looked up through the shattered windshield of his father’s car. There, on the front steps, stood the lady of the house. She was in her mid-sixties, wearing a floral housedress and a navy-blue apron. She stood stone still, staring at the wreckage of her yard, her fists angrily planted on her hips.
Johnny just shook his head, slumped in the seat, and waited. Within minutes, the police and EMS had arrived.
The voices behind the curtain were becoming a little louder, a little more agitated. It seemed to mainly be the father, but occasionally we could hear the son as well.
“What…! Who were…No, you just hold on…!” A few words and phrases carried across the department. Outbursts and unintelligible pieces of sentences, but clearly the temperature in room 2 was rising.
Amy Conners looked up from her logbook. “You might need to go check on things in there,” she said to me, tilting her head in the direction of the voices. “Think I should call Security?”
“No, we won’t need that,” I assured her. “They’ll calm down in a minute. But I’ll go over and have a few words with them.”
I was reasonably confident in my assessment of the situation. I had briefly spoken to Johnny’s parents when they arrived in the ER. They seemed calm enough, though obviously concerned. His father was a professional of some description and was dressed in a business suit. His mother was tall, slender, and very quiet, letting her husband ask the questions for the two of them.
As I made my way to room 2, the sounds coming from behind the curtain took an ominous turn. The distance was only a matter of a few steps. But in the moments it took to cross that brief space, I clearly heard the father yelling at Johnny and Johnny responding with slurred expletives. Then came the sounds of scuffling, of the stretcher being pushed against the wall, and the grunts of two men struggling with each other. Then a woman’s scream. And silence.
“Hold on here!” I demanded, pulling the curtain aside and stepping into the room.
I will never forget the bizarre and troubling scene played out before me. Johnny’s father stood nearest me, his fists clenched by his side, his hair tousled and his tie
Similar Books
