Elena Vanishing by Elena Dunkle Page B

appendix has picked up on his nerves, and she too looks toward me in mute appeal. I could, and it would go well—undoubtedly better than it’s about to go. I’ve started IVs on several of the techs for practice. “Hey, Elena, find my vein” is a pretty weird pickup line, but hospital techs have to be creative.
    I’m not allowed to start IVs on patients, though. No IVs and no medications. I wonder how this pair would feel if they knew I’m only a high school student, bussed to the hospital on alternate school days to work here for class credit. There are four of us students at the hospital this semester: two in Labor and Delivery and two here in the ER.
    No need to tell these fearful people that their “expert” is a schoolgirl, though. They’re already having a rough day. So I give them both my most reassuring smile.
    â€œYou’ll do fine,” I tell Private Henning. “I’ll talk you through it.”
    A couple of false starts, and Private Henning accomplishes his task. That actually went pretty well. The cluster of nervous newbies has re-formed by the dry-erase board. Private Henning goes to join them, but I notice that he’s already walking a little taller.
    A short, dark-haired man stomps to the door of Room Five. His scrubs are patched, and his lab coat is so wrinkled, it looks like he’s been sleeping in it. He surveys the herd of newbies with a furious frown, but his face clears when he spots me.
    â€œElena! Good!” he barks. “Get over here right now! I need assistance!”
    â€œYes, Dr. T.”
    Dr. T. is from somewhere in the former Soviet Union. He’s a fantastic doctor, but his bedside manner is nonexistent: he takes offense just as readily as he gives it. He’s already had a run-in with a patient today, but he handled it surprisingly well. A beefy man with chest pains roared with anger and refused to be treated by him: “I didn’t come here to see some damn Polack!”
    To my amazement, Dr. T. went away like a lamb and transferred the patient to another doctor. It turned out that he and the beefy man were secretly in agreement. He told me, “I would not let a Polish doctor treat me, either.”
    Now I join Dr. T. in Room Five, where a big young Marine is sitting on the examining table. He’s stripped to the waist, and his pecs and biceps are a thing of much work and preoccupation if not beauty. He has pale blond fuzz on his head, and across the baby-pink skin of his shoulder is a skeleton riding a Harley. With him is another big young Marine—possibly his boss.
    Dr. T. is an avid doodler. While he’s talking with the Marines, he’s scribbling away on his pad of paper.
    â€œDraining an abscess is very painful,” he says. “I can perform it here, but I would strongly recommend that you get a surgical consult.”
    I take a few steps farther into the room and scan the patient. On his back is what appears to be a giant red pimple. We see two or three of these a day. They go deep into the tissue and can even cause gangrene. The skin inflammation is only the tip of the iceberg.
    But the Marine looks at his Marine friend, and they both burst out laughing.
    â€œDude, I’ve been in the
desert
!” he scoffs. “I think I can handle a little
zit
!”
    â€œVery well,” says Dr. T. He’s doodling daggers and harpoons on his sketchpad.
    I wash again, don new gloves, and lay out the sterile kit. Five minutes later, I’m up to my knuckles in the Marine’s back, wiping away blood so Dr. T. can see what he’s doing.
    â€œ
SHIT!
” roars the Marine, gripping his friend’s hand so hard that it’s white.
    â€œ
SHIT!
” roars the other Marine in agreement, and probably in almost as much pain. Only once did I make the mistake of offering my hand for a patient to hold through a procedure. The poor guy almost broke it.
    Behind Dr. T.’s safety