strapped down on a rigid backboard, arms by their sides, legs straight out, and head and neck strapped in place, allowing no movement. This was necessary to protect someone with obvious or potential spinal injuries. But it was also very uncomfortable.
“Get me off this thing!”
Sandy Green, Denton’s partner, was struggling with our next guest. Sandy was trying to guide the stretcher into the department with one hand and attempting to keep the patient from falling off with the other.
“And get this thing out of my arm!” He was referring to the IV that had been placed in his right elbow, which he was clumsily attempting to grasp. Sandy needed another hand, maybe two.
“Jimmy, you be still and let them help you.” The calm and plaintive admonition came from the young woman in front of me.
“I don’ need no help! I need to get outta here!”
Jeff had already moved toward the second stretcher and was trying to help Sandy maintain order.
“Hold on a minute, Jimmy,” he instructed him. “Let us just get you to a bed and check you over, and then you can get out of here, okay?”
“I don’ need to be checked over! Just lemme get up from here!” was the response.
I looked up at Denton. “Take them back to minor trauma. A and B. I don’t think there’s anyone in there right now.”
“Okay, Doc,” he answered, and he started down the hall with his patient.
As Sandy came by the nurses’ station, I patted him on the shoulder. He was a large man, and he was sweating profusely. “Just follow Denton,” I told him.
He nodded without saying a word.
I glanced down at his patient. He was probably in his early thirties, dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt, and he had on running shoes. His long jet-black hair looked dyed and was unkempt. On his right forearm was a large tattoo. The name “Amanda” was emblazoned in black ink over a large red heart. Other than this tattoo, I didn’t see a mark on him—no scratch, no blood. Nothing.
“Sheryl!” he called out. “Where they takin’ you?”
Sheryl?
I glanced again at the tattoo. Hmm. Love is a fickle thing.
“Just relax, Jimmy.” Sandy tried to calm him. “We’re going with her. Just hold on.”
They moved off down the hallway, with Jimmy eloquently expressing his displeasure with the current circumstances.
“I told you to get me off this thing!”
While I finished up with two other patients, Jeff made an assessment of our auto accident victims. He walked up to the counter with their charts in his hands.
“Finally got Jimmy calmed down,” he told me. “I don’t know how long he’ll stay that way, though. He’s pretty drunk. And pretty obnoxious. He’s on bed A. Looks okay, just complainin’ of low back pain. But he’s movin’ around pretty good.”
I finished up the chart I was working on and put it into the “Discharge” basket. “Good. And what about her?”
“I don’t know. I think she’s got somethin’ goin’ on,” Jeff said. “Heart rate’s about 110, and her belly is tender. Blood pressure is 110 over 70. Everything else seems okay. I upped her IV.”
“Good,” I responded. “I’ll go take a look.”
I had worked with Jeff long enough to know that when he thought something was going on, it usually was. He didn’t overreact, and he’d seen a bunch.
Tammy, one of our evening nurse techs, was in minor trauma with our two patients. They were on adjacent beds with a curtain separating them. Jimmy was lying quietly for the moment, his eyes closed. I walked over to bed B.
“How are you feeling, Sheryl?” I asked.
She looked up at me. “Not too good, Doc. What’s wrong with me?”
“We’re going to find out,” I told her, as I gently began to palpate her abdomen. Jeff was right. It was tender and was becoming distended.
“Does this hurt over here?” I asked, pushing down on her left upper belly, just below the rib cage. The spleen lives here, and I was suspicious it might have been injured in the
“Get me off this thing!”
Sandy Green, Denton’s partner, was struggling with our next guest. Sandy was trying to guide the stretcher into the department with one hand and attempting to keep the patient from falling off with the other.
“And get this thing out of my arm!” He was referring to the IV that had been placed in his right elbow, which he was clumsily attempting to grasp. Sandy needed another hand, maybe two.
“Jimmy, you be still and let them help you.” The calm and plaintive admonition came from the young woman in front of me.
“I don’ need no help! I need to get outta here!”
Jeff had already moved toward the second stretcher and was trying to help Sandy maintain order.
“Hold on a minute, Jimmy,” he instructed him. “Let us just get you to a bed and check you over, and then you can get out of here, okay?”
“I don’ need to be checked over! Just lemme get up from here!” was the response.
I looked up at Denton. “Take them back to minor trauma. A and B. I don’t think there’s anyone in there right now.”
“Okay, Doc,” he answered, and he started down the hall with his patient.
As Sandy came by the nurses’ station, I patted him on the shoulder. He was a large man, and he was sweating profusely. “Just follow Denton,” I told him.
He nodded without saying a word.
I glanced down at his patient. He was probably in his early thirties, dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt, and he had on running shoes. His long jet-black hair looked dyed and was unkempt. On his right forearm was a large tattoo. The name “Amanda” was emblazoned in black ink over a large red heart. Other than this tattoo, I didn’t see a mark on him—no scratch, no blood. Nothing.
“Sheryl!” he called out. “Where they takin’ you?”
Sheryl?
I glanced again at the tattoo. Hmm. Love is a fickle thing.
“Just relax, Jimmy.” Sandy tried to calm him. “We’re going with her. Just hold on.”
They moved off down the hallway, with Jimmy eloquently expressing his displeasure with the current circumstances.
“I told you to get me off this thing!”
While I finished up with two other patients, Jeff made an assessment of our auto accident victims. He walked up to the counter with their charts in his hands.
“Finally got Jimmy calmed down,” he told me. “I don’t know how long he’ll stay that way, though. He’s pretty drunk. And pretty obnoxious. He’s on bed A. Looks okay, just complainin’ of low back pain. But he’s movin’ around pretty good.”
I finished up the chart I was working on and put it into the “Discharge” basket. “Good. And what about her?”
“I don’t know. I think she’s got somethin’ goin’ on,” Jeff said. “Heart rate’s about 110, and her belly is tender. Blood pressure is 110 over 70. Everything else seems okay. I upped her IV.”
“Good,” I responded. “I’ll go take a look.”
I had worked with Jeff long enough to know that when he thought something was going on, it usually was. He didn’t overreact, and he’d seen a bunch.
Tammy, one of our evening nurse techs, was in minor trauma with our two patients. They were on adjacent beds with a curtain separating them. Jimmy was lying quietly for the moment, his eyes closed. I walked over to bed B.
“How are you feeling, Sheryl?” I asked.
She looked up at me. “Not too good, Doc. What’s wrong with me?”
“We’re going to find out,” I told her, as I gently began to palpate her abdomen. Jeff was right. It was tender and was becoming distended.
“Does this hurt over here?” I asked, pushing down on her left upper belly, just below the rib cage. The spleen lives here, and I was suspicious it might have been injured in the
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